


Sunshine & Good Wine

by softestpunk



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mates, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Threesome - M/M/M, drinking and screwing every day, these three deserve a nice retirement okay, you know like mortal enemies and their single mutual friend do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 07:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 25,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14444088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: When Roche wakes up in a Nilfgaardian prison after falling out of favour with the emperor, he isn't exactly thrilled to see Iorveth standing on the other side of the bars.Somehow, though, things work out for the better, and he's whisked away to a fantasy duchy with sunshine, excellent wine, an old friend, an old enemy, and a very surprising proposition from the two of them.





	1. Chapter 1

Familiar laughter woke Roche from the half-doze he’d managed to fall into, still shackled to the wall by his wrists.

His stomach twisted at the sound. Familiar wasn’t always good.

“Vernon Roche,” Iorveth purred, his voice low. Roche looked up with the one eye not swollen shut by bruising.

They matched now, he supposed. One eye each.

Under other circumstances, that might have been poetic.

Iorveth, inexplicably, looked younger than he had last time Roche saw him. No, perhaps not… younger.

Healthier. Better fed, better groomed, less exhausted.

Roche’s mind reeled. Had the Scoia’tael joined the Nilfgaardians after all? Was Iorveth to be his captor, his interrogator?

For the first time since he’d been dragged in here, fear gripped Roche’s insides. Iorveth knew him too well, hated him too much. He would be an effective and enthusiastic interrogator.

“So you’ve sold out to the Black Ones,” Roche said, summoning what little strength he had left. “Traitor.”

Roche wasn’t exactly sure what he felt Iorveth had betrayed--the general concept of honour, perhaps--but it was the best he could do through pain and blood loss, plus a spreading heat in his side that he suspected was an infected wound.

He was proud of how even his voice sounded.

“Is that any way to talk to half of your rescue party?”

“Half?” Roche asked, not quite up to processing the _rescue party_ portion of the sentence.

“You didn’t think I’d just leave you here, did you?” another familiar voice asked.

Roche swallowed. Geralt.

He hadn’t thought for a second about the witcher. Roche had imagined all of his friends to be dead or too far away to even know he was in trouble.

He _certainly_ hadn’t expected Geralt to break into a Nilfgaardian prison to come to the rescue of an enemy of the state. Not that Geralt hadn’t done him favours before, proved himself wholly worthy of trust, but…

Roche hadn’t done much for him, recently. Aside from getting him caught up in a political assassination.

And that had been… years ago, now. And then Geralt had all but disappeared.

Whatever was going on, Roche couldn’t afford to refuse help just now. He hadn’t figured out how he might free himself, and he was getting too old for torture.

Even the ham-fisted, inelegant, ineffective torture the Nilfgaardians generously called interrogation.

“The key is by the-” he said as the door swung open.

Of course Geralt had already found it. Those bloody cat eyes weren’t just for decoration, no matter how much Roche liked looking at them.

He huffed a laugh as the shackles came free from his wrists. Two of the most fascinating men he’d ever met had joined forces to rescue him.

The last time they’d joined forces, they’d proven to be one hell of a menace. It was nice to benefit from that, this time.

Roche groaned as he was hauled unceremoniously over Geralt’s shoulder. A flash of memory hit him, of Iorveth’s men firing on them while he carried Triss like this.

At least Geralt had the courtesy not to grope him. In Roche’s defense, Triss had been squirming.

He didn’t have the energy to squirm now.

Iorveth’s presence still served as a mystery, but one Roche was happy to solve once they were free and clear of this place.


	2. Chapter 2

“Witchers are supposed to know what they’re doing around herbs,” Iorveth growled, much closer to Roche than he would normally have liked him.

He remembered escaping the dungeon. And passing out, slung over Geralt’s shoulder.

They were still moving, but he was lying flat.

A cart?

Strange.

“And elves are supposed to be wise and patient,” Geralt grumbled back, though there was no heat in it. It was the good-natured argument of a pair of old friends, and Roche suddenly felt as though he was intruding by listening in.

He couldn’t help laughing at the thought of Iorveth being _patient_ , though. Despite his long years, Roche had only ever known him to tend heavily toward recklessness.

That was what made not being able to kill or capture him so maddening. Roche was, to his own mind, the more disciplined man, the better strategist. That should have counted for something.

He _was_ the only one of Iorveth’s enemies who’d survived, though, so perhaps it did.

“He’s awake,” Iorveth murmured, and suddenly the space beside Roche got noticeably colder.

Iorveth had been _very_ close.

Roche swallowed. Well, at least he’d determined that neither of them wanted him dead.

“Where…”

“A day’s ride from Vizima,” Geralt said.

“Am I dying?” Roche asked, aware that he couldn’t move most of his body.

Geralt answered no, but at the same moment, Iorveth answered yes.

It wasn’t a cruel yes, either. It was honest.

Roche swallowed.

“You’re not going to die,” Geralt said. “Not today, anyway.”

Roche didn’t need to force himself to open his eyes to see the way Geralt was glaring at Iorveth. He could hear it in his voice.

Iorveth, to Roche’s surprise, said nothing.

“Where are we going?” Roche asked.

“Toussaint,” Geralt responded.

He’d never been to Toussaint. It had always sounded like a fairytale kingdom, the last place in the Northern realms largely untouched by war, famine, and political instability.

“Why?” Roche asked. What the hell was in Toussaint?

“We’ll be safe there,” Geralt said, pressing something to his lips. Roche accepted it without a second thought, trusting his old friend.

Whatever it was turned out to be sickly-sweet and chewy, with an earthy, herbal base note.

“Geralt has joined the landed gentry and acquired a vineyard,” Iorveth said.

As whatever Geralt had given him started to put him to sleep, Roche convinced himself that he’d imagined hearing that.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Roche woke, he was alone.

Alone, covered with a warm quilt and lying in nothing but a loose tunic, on linen sheets.

On perhaps the most comfortable mattress he’d ever been aware of the existence of, let alone had a chance to sleep on.

His entire body hurt, and his mouth was painfully dry, but he felt much, much further from death.

A bottle of water caught his eye on the nightstand, and his need for it encouraged him to make the effort to sit up.

Stitches pulled, but didn't burst, as he did so. He knew better than to touch them, but he lifted his shirt and ran his fingers over the neat, parallel lines holding his flesh together anyway, knowing better be damned. The wound was a touch red around the edges, but the infection he’d felt there had receded considerably.

“Inspecting my work?”

Iorveth's voice made Roche jump. He shoved the tunic back down, covering as much of his body as he could with it.

Iorveth emerged from the shadow of the doorway, a smirk playing around his lips.

If Roche hadn't recognised his voice, he might not have recognised the elf at all.

Instead of his customary bandana, he wore a simple eye patch in wine-coloured leather. His dark hair hung loose, tucked behind his ears and easily passing his shoulders.

Instead of the ad hoc collection of armour Roche was used to seeing him in, he wore only soft, wine-coloured leggings that matched his eye patch and a white linen shirt with a gaping neckline that reminded Roche of Ves.

He wasn't sure either of them would have been flattered by the comparison.

Rather than making any kind of comment, Roche reached for the bottle of water, keeping his gaze on Iorveth. He was glad to have the use of both eyes again. The elf needed at _least_ two on him at all times.

“If I planned to hurt you, I would have done it while you were unconscious,” Iorveth said. “But I doubt Geralt would forgive me if I did.”

Roche turned that piece of information over in his head.

“I'll let him know you're awake,” Iorveth said, turning and walking away.

Belatedly, Roche realised that Iorveth had been the one to sew him up.

That was… an interesting development.

Roche sipped at the water, aware that he was in danger of splitting his belly if he drank too quickly. As much as he wanted to pour the contents of the bottle down his throat, he would have to be patient.

Heavier footsteps approached, Geralt climbing the stairs that Roche could now make out in the low afternoon light. He appeared in the doorway, pale as ever and with a new scar across the bridge of his nose that immediately caught Roche's attention.

“How do you feel?” Geralt asked, hovering in the same spot Iorveth had stuck to.

“Further from death,” Roche said. “Thank you.”

“You’ve done more or less the same for me. Still owed you one,” Geralt said.

Roche didn't believe for a second that he was simply returning a favour, but he trusted Geralt.

Largely because he had an unfortunate, persistent attraction to the other man that he’d never quite managed to shake.

All the same, Geralt was yet to betray his trust, brief alliance with Iorveth notwithstanding.

Although, that alliance suddenly looked less brief than Roche had assumed.

“Iorveth looks well,” Roche said, trying to sound conversational.

“He likes it here,” Geralt said. “Elves do well with plenty of sun and a constant supply of good wine.”

Roche blinked. “He wasn't joking about the vineyard.”

“Nope,” Geralt gestured to the small window off to the side of the room.

Roche couldn't see through it while he was sitting down, but he imagined that, if he stood, he’d see a vineyard beyond.

What he wasn't sure of was whether his tunic was long enough to preserve what little was left of his dignity.

“And he lives here… with you?” Roche asked.

Geralt hummed in the affirmative.

Roche didn't have an answer to that. Geralt might as well have told him his left foot had turned into a unicorn, for all the sense it made.

“With the rest of the Scoia’tael?” Roche asked cautiously.

“No.” Geralt shook his head. “Just Iorveth.”

Something in Roche's chest twinged at the implications of that. He expected nothing from Geralt, and he’d gotten a lot more than he would have even dared ask for over the last few days. Geralt was one of the kindest, most generous and noble men he’d ever met, though the witcher would have denied all of those things.

The fact that he was evidently sleeping with the civilised world’s most wanted man shouldn’t really have come as a surprise, but for some reason, it did.

Iorveth was no more dangerous than any of Geralt’s other partners, the ones Roche knew about, anyway. Just more dangerous to Roche, personally.

But on the other hand, Iorveth seemed… mellower. Happy, even.

“We’re both getting old,” Geralt offered. “Iorveth and I, I mean. This is… retirement. He’s no threat to you. I actually think he’s thrilled you’re here.”

“Because he’s looking forward to torturing me,” Roche said, absolutely sure this was true.

“He won’t hurt you,” Geralt said.

For a man as old and well-travelled as he was, sometimes Geralt was painfully naive.

“He needn’t lay a finger on me to torture me,” Roche responded, fatigue starting to get the better of him. He sipped at the water once more, then heaved himself back onto the bed and pulled the quilt over him.

It smelled faintly of lavender.

“I can’t stop him giving you hell,” Geralt said. “But I can’t stop you giving as good as you get, either. And I won’t. There’s no condition on my hospitality that says ‘be kind to Iorveth’. Just don’t try to kill him.”

Roche hummed at that, deciding it was a reasonable set of rules. As long as he was Geralt’s guest, he’d refrain from doing any harm to his…

Lover?

No, _pet elf_ , Roche decided with a tiny smile of satisfaction. _That_ would get under Iorveth’s skin.

“You look well, Geralt,” Roche said, finally taking in Geralt’s appearance. He was dressed much as Iorveth was, in soft green trousers and a linen shirt, though less of his chest was bared. It was at once a shame and a small mercy.

Geralt chuckled. “Didn’t bring you here to flatter me,” he said.

“I was stating a fact.” Roche let his eyes fall closed, unable to push back his exhaustion any longer.

“I’ll let you nap. Could you eat?”

A sharp pang hit Roche in the stomach at the suggestion, though he wasn’t sure whether it was hunger or a warning not to put anything else in it.

In the interest of being safe, he shook his head.

“All right. If you need anything, just call. The servants are under instruction not to disturb you, but they’ll come if you want them.”

_Servants?_

Roche wanted to ask about that, or make some comment about Geralt having _servants_ , but sleep took him before he could do anything with the thought.


	4. Chapter 4

It was dark when Roche woke again. This time, sitting up came easier, and another few sips of water made him sigh with pleasure, his belly aching less than it had done. The small plate of dried fruits and nuts by his bed suddenly looked tempting.

He picked up a single sultana, wondering if this was one of Geralt’s grapes, and popped it in his mouth.

It was still very, _very_ strange to imagine Geralt having grapes.

After a few moments, he gathered the energy to stand, making his way toward the window.

He could only see so much in the dark, but the main, populated areas of the estate were lit by torches.

Geralt had done well for himself.

Which didn’t explain why he’d risked so much to rescue Roche, who was currently number one on the Empire’s shit list. Of course, out here, no one would know who he was.

A sound behind him made Roche turn, on his guard immediately. “Who’s there?” he demanded of the shadowed figure.

Old habits died hard.

“My apologies,” a young woman said as she stepped into the pool of moonlight in the main part of the bedroom. “I didn’t realise you were awake.”

Roche was suddenly, horribly aware that his tunic hung no lower than the tops of his thighs.

The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but she looked healthy and, aside from the start Roche had given her, happy.

“I was coming to bank the fire,” she explained in her thick, unfamiliar accent. Roche wasn’t sure he’d ever even _met_ anyone from Toussaint before.

“Oh, uh… don’t let me stop you,” he said, his ears burning with shame at appearing almost entirely naked in front of this poor young woman.

She had undoubtedly seen worse, but Roche was aware that he wasn’t much to look at. Especially not right now.

She scurried past him, seeing to the fire.

Roche went back to looking out over the estate as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

He realised belatedly that, between a witcher and an elf, the lighting was probably kept low inside all the time.

“Master Geralt is still awake,” she said after a moment. “He worries about you, I think.”

Roche’s chest twinged again.

He couldn’t go downstairs dressed like this.

“There are clothes set out for you,” she added, nodding to a trunk at the foot of the bed that Roche hadn’t noticed before.

He walked over to it, squinting to see a shirt and a pair of soft, knitted leggings that he knew would wear comfortably, but keep him warm.

Blue leggings.

He smiled at that. Geralt apparently _did_ have a thoughtful bone in his body, though perhaps that shouldn’t have been a surprise.

The surprise was more that he’d bother to direct that at Roche.

The neckline of the shirt was a lot more modest as well, high enough that if he laced it tightly, Roche could be covered from ankle to throat in fabric.

It might have been an insult, but it felt more like a concession to Roche’s comfort.

“Could, uh…” Roche cleared his throat. He was used to ordering soldiers around, but less so young women. “Could I have a candle? And some hot water to wash with?”

“Of course, sir,” the servant responded. Roche breathed a sigh of relief.

“And, uh, could you tell Geralt I’d like to come down and see him?”

“Of course,” she said. “He is eager to see you.”

Roche nodded. Geralt obviously wanted him for _something_ , though he had no idea what, yet. Perhaps, if he could present himself as mostly healed, he’d find out.


	5. Chapter 5

As expected, the leggings were warm and comfortable to wear, even with the wound in his side. The shirt, too, was made of fine linen, finer than anything Roche had so much as touched in his life before now.

Roche padded down the stairs in bare feet gingerly, though a pair of butter-soft leather boots had also been left out for him.

“Roche,” Geralt greeted from the end of a long table. “I wasn’t expecting you up and about yet.”

“Yes, well…” Roche looked around, and then decided to settle himself on the end of a long bench, as close to Geralt as he could sit without crowding the other man. “No rest for the wicked, as the priests of the Eternal Fire say.”

Geralt wrinkled his nose at the mention. His opinion of them had clearly not improved.

“There is rest here,” Geralt said. “Even for the wicked.”

“You did mention that Iorveth lives here.”

Geralt chuckled. “He volunteered to help rescue you.”

Roche raised an eyebrow.

“I think his exact words were _no one gets to kill Vernon Roche other than me,_ ” Geralt said, doing a passable impression.

“I’m touched that he cares so deeply for me.”

Geralt hummed like a man who had a secret.

Of course, Geralt had undoubtedly forgotten more secrets than most men ever had in the first place.

“How’s Ciri?” Roche asked. He’d been curious about what had happened to her, and hadn’t heard from Geralt since they’d been up to their elbows in royal blood.

All that time Geralt had spent proving he was innocent of one regicide, and Roche had dragged him into another one.

Roche realised now that perhaps _some_ of his motivation had come from Radovid taking to the methodical extermination of non-humans. He had enough evidence to suggest that Geralt was fond of them.

“Alive and happy,” Geralt said. “Well, as happy as witchers ever are.”

Roche raised an eyebrow. “She’s a witcher?”

“Not… in the technical sense, but she does witchers’ work. And she’s good at it.”

“You trained her well,” Roche smiled.

The faintest hint of pride washed over Geralt’s face. It was a good look on him.

“Your wounds are clearing up,” Geralt said casually. “You look a lot less black and blue.”

“Witcher medicine is indeed a miracle,” Roche agreed.

“Elven,” Geralt corrected. “Witcher medicine would have killed you.”

Roche swallowed. Elven medicine? So Iorveth had…

Not only stitched him up, which Roche had imagined he’d done at Geralt’s request, but… healed him, as well.

With such care that he’d been brought back from the brink of death.

“He comes from a long line of healers, you know,” Geralt said after a moment.

Roche hadn’t known that. He’d never been able to find out where Iorveth had come from at all. He was so old that any records of him before he became a Scoia’tael commander had been lost long back.

“I didn’t,” Roche said. “Historically, he hasn’t been inclined to share his secrets with me.”

“And which secrets would you like to know, commander?” Iorveth rumbled from behind.

Roche turned to follow him with his eyes, watching as he moved to lean against the wall beside a set of armour.

His mood soured immediately.

The fact that Geralt’s attention had moved almost wholly to Iorveth didn’t help matters, either.

“How do you keep your hair so shiny?” Roche asked, aiming at sarcastic but unfortunately coming off as genuinely inquisitive.

He didn’t _really_ wonder or indeed care, since he kept his own head closely shaved. Not giving the enemy anything to grab onto while they tried to take it off had always seemed like an advantage.

Which was part of what made him envy Iorveth’s relaxed state. He’d always kept his hair hidden away so there was nothing to grab, as well, though vanity had clearly stopped him from cutting it. Except now, he obviously didn’t feel he had to hide it.

“Geralt has an olive grove. The oil they produce is excellent for the hair. And skin.” Iorveth looked Roche over assessingly. “I’ll find you some.”

Roche narrowed his eyes. Fine, insults it was.

“You gonna rub his back for him, too?” Geralt asked lazily.

To Roche’s utter shock, Iorveth actually blushed, bright stripes of colour lighting up his sharp cheekbones.

At the same moment, the faintest, most confusing curl of heat gripped the pit of Roche’s stomach. He willed it away, horrified at even the mere _thought_ …

It was just that Iorveth seemed like a different man. That was all. Roche’s preference had always been for men.

Even elves, though he’d never gotten so far as actually… touching one.

“Ah, so now that you have _two_ beds to choose from, you’re willing to risk getting kicked out of one of them,” Iorveth said.

The shocks of the evening were, apparently, not over.

Roche opened his mouth to object, but he couldn’t think of any objection to make.

Geralt was definitely welcome to share his bed, so he couldn’t bring himself to say otherwise.

Iorveth’s remaining eye lit up, victory blazing on his face. He’d found the weak spot he was looking for, and now he’d apply pressure.

Roche watched Iorveth push away from the wall and take a step toward him. “I’ve changed my mind,” Iorveth said, holding Roche’s gaze, but obviously addressing Geralt. “You can jump to his defence, and I’ll still make you howl so loudly that they hear it in the servant’s quarters.”

“Iorveth,” Geralt said, his voice low, but the warning in it clear.

Roche wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve being defended, but he was mostly relieved that Geralt didn’t seem to be disgusted by the mere thought of Roche’s desire for him.

Iorveth sighed heavily and stopped stalking toward Roche, straightening up as though he’d never been anything other than completely genial.

He hovered his way closer to Geralt, though.

Was he… jealous?

But that didn’t make any sense, unless he was too stupid to see the way Geralt looked at him. A man absolutely captivated by his partner, utterly in love whether he’d ever said it out loud or not.

Roche didn’t stand the barest chance.

“I should go back to bed,” Roche said, standing. “I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“You’ve done the same for me,” Geralt said, for the second time.

Roche nodded, glancing at Iorveth as he headed for the room he’d been left in again, tiredness turning his bones to lead.

As promised, before Roche could drift off to sleep, Iorveth made Geralt howl.


	6. Chapter 6

For a solid handful of days, Roche alternated between sleeping too much, going downstairs for quiet chats with Geralt about their respective adventures, and beginning to explore the grounds of the vineyard.

Iorveth kept more or less to himself, and Roche couldn’t help but wonder whether that was Geralt’s doing. Perhaps he _could_ stop the elf from harassing him, after all.

Roche wasn’t entirely sure why he’d bother, but then, he wasn’t sure about much at the moment. Why he was here, how long he was expected to stay, what he was meant to do while he did.

Geralt had only asked him to recover, and to get in the habit of eating properly.

It had been a long time since he’d had consistent access to food that actually appealed to him, so the second directive was proving easier by the day.

Within a week, he’d met all the servants and committed their names to memory, had a good mental map of the vineyard grounds, and felt more at ease than he ever remembered feeling in his life.

Even with the presence of an elf who’d sworn to kill him more often that Roche had slept in a real bed hanging over him.

Today, his feet took him past the boundary of the estate and led him into the lightly-wooded hills beyond. The walk would do him good, his muscles weak from too little exercise. Besides, he still felt the need to get the lay of the land.

A nearby cliff with a steep but walkable path up to it seemed like the perfect vantage point.

By the time he reached the top, Roche’s lungs were burning with the effort. Perhaps he hadn’t been ready for a walk of quite that magnitude.

The sound of running water beckoned to him, the chance to splash his face and rest for a moment too good to pass up.

He ducked into a copse of trees, finding a small, sky-blue pool in the middle of them. The dappled sunlight made the whole scene look magical, truly like something out of a fairytale.

Right down to the very familiar, _very_ naked elf lounging on a sunbathed rock.

Roche paused, his eyes fixed on Iorveth’s body.

To his dismay, Iorveth was beautiful without his clothes on. His sharp edges had been softened by the care and attention he enjoyed here, though the power in his muscles was still plain to see. His skin was tanned a fetching fawn shade all over, practically glowing in the sun, the light catching his cheekbones and the elegant lines of his neck.

By the time Roche’s gaze made its way to Iorveth’s face, the elf was looking straight back at him.

“Enjoying the view?” Iorveth asked.

He definitely wasn’t talking about the admittedly spectacular view from the top of the cliff.

Roche’s cheeks were suddenly hot. He’d been admiring Iorveth’s body, genuinely looking at it with pleasure, and he’d been caught doing it.

As uncomfortable situations went, this ranked slightly higher than being chained to a cold stone wall for a week without a break.

All the same, he couldn’t afford to back down. Not with Iorveth.

“Looking for weaknesses,” he said.

Iorveth snorted. “Do you take me for an idiot?”

Roche swallowed. That was the one thing he’d always known not to do.

“Surprisingly, no,” Roche said.

“Then you _must_ know that I know women don’t interest you. And that men do.”

That wasn’t a terribly well-kept secret. It barely even qualified as any kind of secret.

It was still a touch surprising that Iorveth knew. Or for that matter, cared. Especially as he was clearly in approximately the same position.

“Which does not imply that I’m interested in _you_ ,” Roche said. “I know you have trouble separating reality from your ego, but…”

Iorveth rolled onto his side, turning to face Roche.

It took all of Roche’s not inconsiderable willpower to stop himself from looking away in embarrassment. Or worse, trailing his eyes away from Iorveth’s face, concentrating on other parts.

Iorveth, bastard that he was, smirked.

“I think I liked you better when you were trying to kill me,” Roche said. It was a weak defense, but it was the best he could come up with.

Without missing a beat, Iorveth raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so _that’s_ what makes Vernon Roche tick,” Iorveth purred. “All those times you tackled me to the ground, I thought you were just terrible with a sword.”

A lump formed in Roche’s throat. Though he never planned on letting Iorveth in on it, he _had_ walked away from more than one of their scuffles in desperate need of release.

Not specifically because it had been Iorveth.

Mostly.

Dammit.

“I just knew you were hopeless in close combat,” Roche said.

Iorveth had proven time and time again that he _wasn’t_ , that his will to live gave him strength unlike any other man, that he wasn’t at all afraid to fight dirty. He scratched and bit and kicked when he was cornered.

Secretly, Roche had always respected that about him. Not that he was going to tell Iorveth _that_ , either.

“You don’t need to goad me into a bout of naked wrestling, if that’s what you’re looking for. Just undress and say the word.”

Roche wet his lips. He had no idea what to say to that.

“I-I…” he stammered. “Think I should go back.”

Iorveth’s face changed, his obvious enjoyment at Roche’s discomfort fading.

This was the best strategy, then. If Roche couldn’t _win_ this fight, he could at least take Iorveth’s toys away.

He turned to leave, disgust at himself making bile rise in his throat. The sanctuary of the quiet room he’d been staying in would do him good.


	7. Chapter 7

“Nothing you’re doing is working because even Vernon Roche doesn’t want to be insulted into bed,” Geralt said, halting Roche in his tracks.

He stayed where he was, halfway down the stairs from his bedroom.

Insulted into bed?

Who the hell was Geralt--

“He wouldn’t accept anything other than an insult from me,” Iorveth said, sighing heavily.

Iorveth was asking…

“I’m getting soft,” the elf continued. “I’ve grown too fond of the pleasures of the flesh. I shouldn’t even be _interested-_ ”

Geralt snorted, interrupting him. “You’ve always been interested. I’ve seen your sketches.”

“There are an equal number of you,” Iorveth said.

“Right, exactly. You’re making my point for me,” Geralt said.

Sketches… of him? Roche’s head spun.

The knowledge that Iorveth had a romantic streak shouldn’t have been new, and yet, it was.

The knowledge that his romantic streak was in some way directed at Roche himself was enough to force Roche to back up a step and sit down as quietly as humanly possible.

He didn’t doubt that Geralt had already heard him. There was only ten feet between them, and he’d watched Geralt track much quieter things at much greater distances.

The fact that Iorveth _hadn’t_ noticed him only suggested that the distress in his voice was real and genuine.

“This is going to come as a shock,” Geralt drawled. “But I know a thing or two about seduction. You know how you get even someone who hated you a moment ago to fall into bed with you?”

“Clearly, I _don’t_ ,” Iorveth said. His petulance was… almost endearing.

“Be nice,” Geralt said. “That’s it, that’s the whole secret. I know you know how to be nice. I’ve seen how deeply you can care for someone.”

“This isn’t-”

“Like that, I know. But the principle is the same.”

Iorveth sighed. “Your reputation implies that you know what you’re talking about,” he allowed. “So what do I _do_?”

“Try going to him,” Geralt said, his voice just a touch louder.

Making sure Roche could hear.

Geralt of Rivia, matchmaker. Matchmaker of _mortal enemies_.

No one would believe Dandelion if he chose to report this particular chapter in Geralt’s life.

Roche stood quietly, hesitating between two possibilities. He could continue down the stairs, interrupt Geralt and Iorveth’s conversation, stop this whole affair in its tracks.

Or he could go back up to his bed, and wait.

The low throb of anticipation that twisted his gut at the thought of the second prospect made it very, _very_ clear what he really wanted.

As quietly as he could, Roche made his way back up the stairs, changed into the loose tunic he’d taken to sleeping in, and curled up under the blankets.


	8. Chapter 8

“Are you awake?” Iorveth’s voice broke the silence of the room.

Roche shifted, anticipation flaring up to full intensity again. Iorveth had taken so long to turn up that he’d almost fallen asleep.

“More or less,” Roche responded. “What do you want?”

He knew, of course.

The thought of it gave him a giddy rush. He was under no illusions of being the greatest catch available, but the thought that Iorveth wanted him…

His heart pounded in his chest, which he was sure Iorveth would take as alertness rather than the combination of nerves and excitement it really was.

“I promised you oil,” Iorveth said.

“I don’t have any hair,” Roche responded.

Where was the fun in this if he couldn’t torture his favourite arch nemesis?

In truth, his hatred of Iorveth had softened over the years. As he’d been forced to use Socia’tael tactics himself in the defense of his homeland, he’d even come to respect him for his tactical courage.

“I thought it might do your wound some good. Stop the skin from drying out.”

Roche hummed, sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge of the bed.

Now that he knew what to look for, he could feel Iorveth’s gaze on him, burning into his skin at the tops of his thighs. This wasn’t hatred, or disgust.

It was thinly-veiled lust.

And Roche had been too stupid to see it before.

Too insecure, perhaps. He couldn’t ever remember feeling desirable in his life.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the feeling, now that he was getting his first taste of it.

Without looking Iorveth in the eye, he lifted the tunic he was wearing to reveal the wound the elf had sewed into a neat line. The scar would be barely noticeable when it was done healing.

Before, Roche had assumed that was Iorveth showing off. Now, he thought differently of the gesture.

Iorveth crossed the small distance between them, settling lightly on the edge of the bed. Roche had no choice but to lean back on his elbows, to give Iorveth access to his damaged skin.

A rich, fruity scent rose from the bottle as soon as Iorveth uncorked it. Roche knew next to nothing about things like this, so he had no idea whether or not that was a good thing.

“You chose the right man to befriend,” Iorveth said, almost conversationally.

This was what he was like when he was trying to be nice.

There was a clumsy, boyish sort of charm to it.

“Geralt is a good man,” Roche said. “Better than most.”

Iorveth hummed in agreement.

At least their affection for Geralt was something they had in common.

Roche hissed as Iorveth’s fingers made contact with his sensitive skin.

“Too cold?” Iorveth asked. There was concern in his voice, real concern that he was making Roche uncomfortable.

What a change.

He clearly wanted… whatever he was angling for.

“No, just… a surprise,” Roche said, fighting the urge to retreat to insults and close himself down.

It occurred to him then that he was trying to be nice, too. That now that he knew what Iorveth wanted, in the broadest strokes…

He wanted that, too.

It had been so long since anyone had touched him with affection. With the intention of being kind to him, instead of cruel.

Too long.

So even if it was an elf who’d done him more harm than most over the years, Roche was willing to accept that. It was the best offer he seemed likely to get.

Iorveth hummed, swiping his fingers along the length of the wound, massaging the oil in delicately.

Blood rushed to Roche’s cock at the touch, but he clamped down on the strange weight in his belly, the surge of arousal.

He wasn’t giving in _this_ easily. Even if he wanted to. Making Iorveth squirm was still entertaining.

“That should stop you scratching it,” Iorveth said.

An objection that Roche knew better than to scratch died on his tongue.

Iorveth _was_ trying, and while making him squirm was one thing, throwing his efforts in his face was another. Roche didn’t have the heart for that.

“Thank you,” he said instead. “Your family were healers?”

“Yes,” Iorveth responded. “The irony is not lost on me.”

“Desperate times,” Roche said.

He’d come to understand, at least partly, what it was like to be an elf. Or rather, what it was like not to be welcome anywhere, to be hunted down.

Not in the way Iorveth knew. Not for as long, not as viciously, but he had _some_ experience now.

And he was not entirely devoid of compassion, rumours to the contrary notwithstanding.

“Is that a hint of sympathy for the plight of my people I detect in your voice?” Iorveth asked. He sounded somewhere between hopeful and amused.

“Yes,” Roche admitted, letting himself flop down on the bed. “I even regret some of the things I’ve done.”

“You assassinated Radovid,” Iorveth said.

“Philippa Eilhart struck the fatal blow, actually,” Roche said.

“I know.” Iorveth’s fingers found the hem of Roche’s tunic, still pushed up and bunched around his chest. He played with the fabric, rubbing it between his fingers like a tailor checking for quality. “But I also know that it wouldn’t have happened without your involvement. And with that one action, you saved more elven lives than you ever ended. So. Perhaps your scales are balanced.”

“That almost sounded like forgiveness.”

It had never occurred to him to want that before, but here he was. Looking for some amount of absolution from a man he’d spent a good portion of his life trying to kill.

“Perhaps it was,” Iorveth said. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Roche hummed in agreement. It didn’t matter anymore. That was a lifetime ago, and a world away.

“Your wound is healing nicely,” Iorveth spoke up after a moment. “I could take the stitches out tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Roche said.

Iorveth stood, the mattress moving as he lifted his weight off it.

He glanced at Roche’s mostly-exposed body. The look was almost clinical, and if Roche hadn’t overheard Geralt earlier, he would have taken it as entirely so. But there _was_ heat in it, and curiosity, and a strange longing.

Roche’s skin tingled.

As Iorveth melted into the shadows of the stairwell, he shoved his tunic back down, hissing at even his own touch.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.


	9. Chapter 9

“There was a time when I would have hesitated to let you near me with a pair of scissors,” Roche said as Iorveth approached him, brandishing a pair of small, ornate scissors that had probably once been part of a noblewoman’s sewing kit.

He suspected it was best not to ask where Iorveth had acquired them.

“You're welcome to remove your own stitches if you’d prefer.” Iorveth held the scissors out in offering, but a shadow flashed over his face.

The thought of not having earned Roche's trust hurt him.

He had earned it, though. He’d done more than enough now that Roche didn't believe Iorveth would hurt him.

“I’d prefer you did it,” Roche said. After a night and morning of dwelling on it, he was eager for Iorveth to touch him again.

Iorveth nodded silently and sat down on the bed next to him, brushing his thumb over the stitches. “I assume you don't need to be numbed first?”

Roche blinked at him. “It's never been an option.”

Iorveth chuckled. “Between you and Geralt, I'm starting to think humans enjoy suffering.”

Before Roche could respond, Iorveth cut the first of his stitches loose. It didn't _hurt_ , precisely, but the feeling was strange, no matter how many times Roche had been through this.

“You said I was dying,” Roche remembered suddenly. “Why?”

“You had a serious fever. Humans are delicate. I didn't imagine you’d pull through,” Iorveth said, with some amount of grim resignation in his voice. “Geralt, of course, has never run a fever in his life. So he wasn't aware how dangerous it could be for a normal human who’d already been starved and beaten.”

“Humans aren't _that_ delicate, clearly,” Roche said, wincing as Iorveth tugged the last stitch from his flesh.

“You don't remember the inn, then?”

Roche opened his mouth to say no, but a flash of something came back to him at that moment.

He remembered a darkened room, the scent of straw and salves hanging heavy in the air. He remembered a cool, wet cloth on his forehead, delicate fingers wringing it out and replacing it when it got too warm.

A soft voice, singing in a language he didn't really understand.

Iorveth.

Roche swallowed.

“You have a beautiful singing voice,” he said after a moment.

“Was that a compliment?” Iorveth asked. His feigned surprise seemed to be aimed at masking _genuine_ surprise.

“Take it as thanks. For saving my life.”

“It would have been a shame to let you die so indignantly,” Iorveth said. “I don't think I could handle the disappointment of the great Vernon Roche being struck down by something so mundane as an infected wound.”

“Careful, you're almost starting to sound as though you like me,” Roche prodded, missing Iorveth's touch already.

“Does the scar hurt?” Iorveth asked. “Feel tender?”

Roche was about to answer no, but before he could, Iorveth ran his fingers along it.

He shivered involuntarily.

Iorveth hummed. He seemed to be enjoying himself, for whatever reason.

Roche couldn’t begin to imagine what Iorveth saw in him, why he was interested at all, aside from perhaps the chance to have a kind of power over him.

But then, he had seemed genuine when he was talking to Geralt.

“Enjoying the view?” Roche asked, aware of Iorveth’s fingers still hovering over his skin.

Iorveth’s hand moved away.

Obviously, that was the wrong thing to say.

“I should leave you in peace,” Iorveth said, standing.

Roche felt the loss more keenly than he’d expected to. His mind raced, desperate to think of a way to keep Iorveth from leaving so soon.

“What do you do with your time these days?” Roche asked, raising himself up on his elbows.

Iorveth blinked at him, obviously surprised by the question. “Are you expecting me to reveal that I’m plotting an armed rebellion?”

Roche smiled wryly. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“For either of us,” Iorveth pointed out. “But no. Long walks, bathing in ponds, hunting game… putting a dent in Geralt’s supplies of wine,” he finished with a grin.

It was so strange to see him smile that Roche could only stare at him.

“A life of idle pleasure?” Roche raised an eyebrow.

“After a very long life of hardship and misery, I think I’m entitled,” Iorveth turned, looking out of the upper floor window. “The world has changed. People like you and I no longer have much of a place in it.”

Roched hummed in agreement. He was a relic of a world that no longer existed, and he’d adjusted poorly to being surplus to requirements.

That was how he’d ended up in a Nilfgaardian dungeon in the first place.

“Do you hunt with your bow?” Roche asked after a moment.

Iorveth raised an eyebrow. “No, I just stand in the forest and wait for my natural elven charm to attract animals.”

Roche sighed. Ask a stupid question…

“I was hoping I could convince you to teach me how to use an elven bow,” Roche said. “I’ve always been curious.”

“They don’t teach archery in the Temerian Special Forces?” Iorveth asked. He knew the answer, of course. There was very little he _didn’t_ know about Temerian Special Forces. He probably knew some things that even Roche didn’t.

“I can aim a crossbow in the vague direction I want the bolt to go,” Roche admitted.

“I suppose it would be entertaining to watch you try,” Iorveth said. “Come along, then.”

Roche scrambled off the bed, pulling his boots on eagerly. This was bound to be good.


	10. Chapter 10

“Are you left or right handed?” Iorveth asked, holding his bow out in offering to Roche.

Even now, the trust in that gesture struck Roche as astounding.

“Left,” Roche said after a moment. Surely Iorveth knew that about him? Although… he used a sword with his right hand, and Iorveth had probably never actually seen him write anything down.

“That will make this easier for me,” Iorveth said.

“Elves tend to be left-handed,” Roche said, dragging that particular piece of trivia from the back of his mind.

Iorveth hummed with something that sounded like satisfaction.

“Put this on your left arm,” he said, handing Roche a supple leather bracer.

“I may be getting on in years, but I can hold up a large stick without help,” Roche said.

Iorveth rolled his eyes. “It’s to stop the bowstring cutting your arm open when it hits, but if you’d rather bleed to death out here…”

Roche blushed darkly, fixing the bracer on his arm. He should have known that, or guessed it at least.

“These arrows will be too long for you,” Iorveth said. “But it shouldn’t make too much difference.”

“Too long?” Roche asked.

This whole archery business was obviously more complicated than he’d thought.

“Your draw length will be shorter than mine because your arms aren’t as long, and these are my arrows.”

Iorveth must have seen the incomprehension on Roche’s face, because Roche was treated to the most dramatic, full-head eyeroll he’d ever seen.

“Just… face the target and fit the notch on the end of the arrow to the bowstring.”

Roche obeyed, eager to try this for himself at least once. He was beginning to suspect Iorveth was just making it seem complicated on purpose.

“Hold the end of the arrow between your index and middle fingers,” Iorveth instructed. “Don’t lock your knees.”

Roche followed Iorveth’s instructions, surprised to realise that this was the first time he’d really seen him in action as the competent, war-weary commander he was. Usually, by the time they actually faced each other, they were five moves deep into some kind of game.

Usually, Iorveth was _playful_. And Roche was just realising that now.

He wondered how long he would have survived if Iorveth hadn’t been determined to toy with him.

Roche raised the bow, pulling the string back as he’d seen countless elves do.

Behind him, Iorveth made a soft growl of disgust.

Before Roche could react, Iorveth’s warm body was pressed up against his back. His knee nudged at Roche’s thigh, pushing it into position, while one arm braced the one Roche was holding the bow with and the other hand curled around his bicep, moving the arm he held the string with back and down.

Heat coiled in Roche’s belly. He could feel Iorveth’s warm breath ghosting over his neck.

Aside from when they’d been in the middle of a fight, he’d never been this close to Iorveth before.

His entire body reacted to it as though it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Perhaps it was.

“Aim low,” Iorveth instructed. “The force will carry the arrow higher.”

Roche nodded, deciding to ignore the fact that it seemed counter-intuitive. His arms were already beginning to burn with the effort of holding the bow taut.

He wouldn’t have made a very good elf in any possible way.

“Do you always give this much hands-on instruction?”

“Only to proven fighters who can’t fire a bow to save their life,” Iorveth said. “Young ones who come to the cause with little knowledge of their roots, but the desire to fight for it.”

“For _you_ ,” Roche corrected. “The loyalty you inspired was always something I envied.”

“Really?” Iorveth purred, even closer to Roche’s ear than before.

Roche swallowed.

“Close one eye to aim, or you’ll never hit anything,” Iorveth said.

His wild swaying between soft seduction and serious drill sergeant was making Roche’s head spin, but he obeyed all the same. “I always wondered if losing an eye made this harder for you.”

Iorveth chuckled. “They took the wrong one. But I would have learned with the other.”

His hand slid down Roche’s side, coming to rest on his hip. “Breathe out before you loose the arrow,” he said.

Roche took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then straightened his fingers to release the bowstring.

The arrow hit the target Iorveth had set up with a satisfying thunk, penetrating deep into the bale of hay behind the paper. It was nowhere near the centre, but at least he hadn’t missed entirely. Roche breathed a sigh of satisfaction, pleased with himself and relieved that he hadn’t _completely_ failed in front of Iorveth.

Beside his ear, Iorveth hummed. “Impressive, for a human. I might even accept you into my unit, if I still had one to command.”

Roche couldn’t stop himself from laughing. Iorveth had obviously taken Geralt’s advice about being kind to heart.

“I’m too old for this,” Roche said, lowering the bow. His forearm stung where the bowstring had struck it, even with the bracer for protection.

“So I needn’t worry about you swooping in and winning the next archery contest when it comes along?”

“I don’t think you’d need to worry if I took to daily practice,” Roche responded. “But thank you for showing me how this is done.”

Iorveth hummed again.

It hadn’t escaped Roche’s notice that they were still very, very close.

“You have an old shoulder injury,” Iorveth said after a moment, still not moving away. “Your right. I can feel the heat of it flaring up.”

“You dislocated it,” Roche said. “Slamming me into a tree.”

“Oh.”

Roche chuckled. “I lived to fight another day,” he said.

“That almost sounded like forgiveness,” Iorveth said, harking back to the conversation they’d had yesterday.

“It is,” Roche responded. Iorveth might have had a harder time offering it, but Roche was too tired to hate him anymore. To hold his actions against him.

They’d both spent a lot of time being used by people who didn’t care about them.

Iorveth’s breath warmed Roche’s neck for another moment before he stepped away.

“Then consider it mutual,” he said. “Sincerely.”

“Getting soft in your old age?” Roche asked.

“In some ways, maybe. I could still shoot a louse off your head at a hundred paces.”

“Forgive me if I don’t rush to volunteer to test that theory,” Roche said.

He missed Iorveth’s warmth.

Perhaps now would have been a good time to tell him that he’d overheard the conversation about him, but… the game was entertaining. He didn’t want to give in _too_ soon.

Roche had never been chased in his life, as far as he was aware. It was unlikely that he ever would be again. He planned to savour this for as long as Iorveth could hold out before he inevitably pounced.

Iorveth hummed, taking his bow back and within seconds, planting an arrow in the centre of the target.

Showoff.

“I was planning on going hunting tomorrow,” Iorveth said casually. “If you can stay quiet enough not to scare off every deer in the duchy…”

“I’d be delighted to join you,” Roche responded, perhaps a little too quickly.

“I’m planning to leave before dawn,” Iorveth said.

Roche shrugged. “It wouldn’t be my first early start.”

“Then I’ll wake you before I leave.”

Roche watched him empty his quiver into the target, his body tense, as though he was aware of the gaze on him and disturbed by it. Or perhaps determined not to slip while Roche was watching.

The second seemed more likely. Roche knew it would be a _lot_ easier to get Iorveth to drop his trousers than his guard. Well, drop his guard _entirely_ , anyway. Warmth and companionship, he seemed comfortable with.

Vulnerability, Roche suspected, wasn’t something even Geralt saw a lot of from him.

Which was fine. Roche understood, and hated to be vulnerable as well. It was just that, having had that choice taken away from him, he didn’t have the energy to swath himself in bravado all over again.

The weight of command had been removed from his shoulders, and he hadn’t realised how heavy it was until he was standing out in the Toussaint sun, with a man who had been his greatest threat for a good portion of his life, watching him casually pull arrows out of a hay bale.

Arrows that held no terror, for the first time.

It was strange, but some part of Roche was eager to get used to it. Eager for this odd, patchwork retirement Geralt and Iorveth had carved out for themselves.

He still wasn’t sure he was invited to join them, but for the first time, he wanted to.


	11. Chapter 11

“And you were worried Iorveth would torture _you_ ,” Geralt said as he came to sit down at the table, plucking a piece of ham directly from Roche’s plate. Despite the fact that there was plenty on the table.

Considering recent events, Roche was almost tempted to read that as flirtatious.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roche sniffed, pretending to be fascinated by the book he’d picked up earlier.

“Yeah you do.” Geralt sighed as he took the weight off his bones.

It was impossible to tell how old the witcher was, and Roche suspected it would be rude to ask, but for the first time, he was starting to _look_ aged.

The hardships of the last few years had clearly taken their toll.

All three of them were past their prime. Iorveth only showed it in the mellowing of his personality, though Roche was almost certain he’d seen a silver hair or two among the dark strands.

He’d still outlive them both, but he obviously wasn’t inclined to do it in anything other than comfort. Roche couldn’t blame him.

“He’s taking me hunting tomorrow,” Roche said, a smile turning up the corner of his lips. The gesture was as close to adorable as Iorveth was capable of being.

“Well, you can lead a horse to water…”

“But you can’t teach it the finer points of seduction and foreplay?” Roche finished for him.

“Exactly,” Geralt agreed. “He’s trying. He…”

“He…?” Roche prompted, getting the distinct impression that whatever Geralt had just stopped himself from saying was important.

Geralt sighed. “Doesn’t have a lot of experience. Don’t ever tell him I told you that.”

“When you say…”

“You could count his romantic partners on one hand and still have fingers left over,” Geralt said.

Roche chuckled. “Not bad, considering.”

“Elves are actually fairly, uh… they have a lot of sex,” Geralt said. “But Iorveth is… different.”

That elves had a lot of sex in general was a surprise, but that Iorveth didn’t wasn’t. Roche had often thought he could stand a good ploughing to mellow him out a little.

Not that he’d, uh, imagined anything like that.

Not often, anyway, and not sober.

“So what does he want from me?”

Geralt chuckled. “Sex. But not out of lust, exactly. You’ll understand, if you let him get close.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Almost always,” he admitted easily, as though it was utterly irrelevant. “You’re expecting a man like Iorveth to be anything other than complicated?”

Roche grabbed his cup, sighing heavily. Whether or not Geralt was, _he_ was too sober for this conversation.

“If you’re expecting me to believe that Iorveth is in love with me…”

“It’s not that simple either,” Geralt said. “Not that he’s incapable of it. One day…”

“And you’d just let him go?” Roche asked, surprised. He’d seen the way Geralt looked at him.

“If he wanted to go, of course. I couldn’t keep him here any more than I could change the wind. But I was thinking you’d stay.”

Roche blinked.

So he _was_ invited.

“Take some advice?” Geralt offered.

Roche nodded, interested in what he had to say.

“Give in. At least once. He’s a lot of fun in bed.”

Roche’s cheeks heated up. He hadn’t been expecting _sex_ advice.

“And you wouldn’t be seethingly jealous?” Roche asked, ever more confused by whatever arrangement Geralt and Iorveth had.

Geralt snorted. “I’d like to watch sometime.”

The whole of Roche’s face felt as though it was mere inches away from a roaring fire.

Before he could think how to respond, Geralt stood and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Witchers are complicated, too,” he said, and then walked away.

Roche was just now beginning to see that _nothing_ about any of this was simple.

But if he had Geralt’s blessing…


	12. Chapter 12

Roche started awake at the sound of someone approaching his bed. He sighed when he realised it was only Iorveth.

Then laughed to himself, because up until this moment, Iorveth having sneaked up on him while he was asleep would have terrified him.

Now, he was relieved to see him. Excited, even.

He’d been trying to puzzle out everything Geralt had told him for most of the night, and had reached no useful conclusions.

Other than that he planned on seeing how this played out.

And that it was just as well he didn’t need to fear Geralt’s anger.

“Are you coming, or not?”

Roche almost, _almost_ considered shuffling over and inviting Iorveth to share the bed with him. But the need to feel useful outweighed his desire for sleep, and even his desire to solve the three-part puzzle he’d been dropped into.

He rolled out of bed, sighing softly, and set about getting dressed. He didn’t dare look to see whether Iorveth was watching him or looking away, though he suspected the former. Iorveth didn’t seem like the type to pay heed to anyone else’s modesty.

Not that Roche minded one way or the other, though some part of him feared that if Iorveth got a good look at him naked in full daylight, his feelings would immediately change.

After a solid two weeks of being well looked after, the age-related softness of his belly had returned, and he knew that he was otherwise not much to look at. Covered in a small collection of scars, none of which commemorated any particularly valorous deeds. A touch on the short side, compared to either Iorveth or Geralt. Beginning to well and truly show all of his forty-odd years on his face, and, depressingly, in other places as well.

Neither thickly muscled nor gracefully lean, but somewhere in between. Utterly average.

He was under no illusions that his cock was of much interest to anyone, either. He’d seen better.

Once he was dressed, Iorveth lead him out into the woods in silence, his bow slung over his shoulder. They walked at a comfortable pace, close enough that their shoulders brushed together from time to time.

A spark of lightning tingled through Roche’s body at every incidental contact.

He knew he was going to end up taking Geralt’s advice. It was only a matter of time.

They both paused at the top of a hill as the sun peeked over the horizon and painted streaks of pink and gold in the sky.

Roche sighed. How long had it been since he’d had the chance to enjoy the simple beauty of a sunrise?

Geralt's offer of staying here became more and more appealing by the hour.

Roche jumped as something nudged his elbow.

He turned to see that it was a doe.

As the beast sidled up to him, stopping to rest beside him and watch the sunrise as well, any desire he had to hunt left him.

Perhaps he was getting old. Though if being old gave him the chance to be softer, gentler, then he couldn't bring himself to complain. He’d lived a life of having to be hard and cruel.

Iorveth's presence here suddenly made all the sense in the world.

After a few moments the deer bounded off, leaving Roche’s heart fluttering in his chest.

Iorveth hummed. “Are you sure you don't have any royal blood?”

“I can't be,” Roche said. “I have no idea who my father is.”

“Oh,” Iorveth said softly. “Well, perhaps you're destined to be a princess.”

Roche chuckled. “Natural human charm,” he said, remembering the joke Iorveth had made yesterday.

“I'm beginning to see that,” Iorveth responded. “And I'm not inclined to shoot your friend. You have few enough that you can't afford to lose any.”

Roche nodded, letting the insult pass. He was starting to see them as affectionate. “I don't have the heart to kill anything today.”

“Between us we have the blood of five heads of state on our hands and now we can't bring ourselves to kill a deer,” Iorveth said, obviously amused by the thought.

“Deer are innocent. No man who’s ever worn a crown can say the same.”

Iorveth made a soft sound of approval. “So you have learned one or two things about politics since we last met,” he said, turning to head back toward the vineyard.

Roche followed him, beginning to get used to the idea of doing that. When Iorveth didn’t have a blade at Roche’s throat, he had a compelling personality.

It was very easy to see why Geralt had fallen for him. Strong personalities were his type.

“I like to think of myself as a lifelong learner,” Roche said belatedly as they passed through the gate of the vineyard. “Geralt's library appeals to me.”

Iorveth chuckled. “I'll teach you to read Elder Speech, and then my library can appeal to you as well.”

“I know a few key phrases,” Roche said. “Mostly ones you've spat at me in the heat of battle.”

“Those are the fun ones.” Iorveth pushed the door of the main house open, holding it for Roche. Apparently, the chivalric virtues of this strange land were rubbing off on him.

“Well, I'm going back to bed,” Roche said, a yawn stretching out the last few syllables.

It took him a moment to realise Iorveth was following him.

Roche’s stomach swooped. Was this it?

“Did you want something?” Roche asked as casually as he could, his legs trembling at the thought of what Iorveth might say.

“To share your bed,” Iorveth murmured, his voice suddenly as soft as silk.

Roche’s knees weakened, but he was determined not to show it.

“Geralt snores,” he added after a moment. “And I'm tired.”

Oh. Share his bed as in actually… sleep in it. That was strange, and perhaps a touch disappointing.

Roche raised an eyebrow. “I don't snore?”

No one had ever reported one way or another.

“You don't,” Iorveth confirmed. “I thought all humans did, but I was wrong.”

Roche wasn't sure what to do with that information.

Iorveth had asked to share his bed, and he still needed to give an answer.

He knew what it was going to be.

“Then my bed is your bed,” he said.

Iorveth smiled, a strange expression on his face, but an endearing one. “You should know I sleep naked.”

_Good_ , Roche thought.

“Then you won't mind me doing the same,” he said, turning to strip off his clothes.

He could feel Iorveth watching him. Strange how only a few weeks ago he wouldn't have dared undress in front of him, and now he was excited about it.

“That scar is healing beautifully,” Iorveth said.

“Thanks to you,” Roche responded.

“I see you have a few others that are thanks to me.” Iorveth took a step toward him.

“You're one of very few to manage that feat. The rest were lucky shots. I walked away from all-out battle with the Wild Hunt barely grazed.”

Perhaps that was why he was here. Geralt's gratitude for saving his daughter.

“A lot of mine belong to you, as well,” Iorveth murmured.

The phrasing stuck in Roche’s throat, forming a lump there.

When Roche turned to look at him, Iorveth was naked. In the dim morning light of the room Roche could only make out a few details, but his fingers itched to touch him, trail over his skin and map out every scar, every old injury, hear all the stories he didn't already know, and some of the ones he did.

Before he could move to say or do anything, Iorveth backed away and slipped under the covers of the bed beside them with such speed and grace that it was barely as though he’d moved.

“Not completely cold yet,” he said approvingly, snuggling down under the quilt. “Humans run hot.”

“Or elves are naturally cold,” Roche suggested.

“If you want warmth, you'll have to come over here to get it,” Iorveth said.

Since the warmth of the bed was too tempting to resist, Roche approached it and lifted the quilt, climbing under it eagerly. As soon as he was under the heavy quilt and had his head on the soft, down-stuffed pillow under him, he sighed happily.

“Did you ever imagine voluntarily falling asleep next to me?” Iorveth asked after a moment.

“Not until just now,” Roche admitted. “If you planned to kill me, you’ve had plenty of opportunity. I trust you.”

“I don’t plan to kill you,” Iorveth agreed.

“According to Geralt, your plans lean more toward ploughing me,” Roche said, unable to stand the dancing back and forth anymore. He’d never been much of a spy. Never been good at not just saying exactly what he meant.

Streaks of pink washed over Iorveth’s high, sharp cheekbones.

“You don’t seem entirely disgusted by the idea,” Iorveth said after a moment, his gazed fixed firmly a few inches above Roche’s face.

“I’m not,” Roche said softly.

Iorveth’s gaze flicked down, meeting Roche’s own. “Curiosity?” Iorveth asked.

“Partly,” Roche allowed. “You’re also growing on me.”

One corner of Iorveth’s lips twitched up into a tired smile.

“Why me?” Roche asked, hoping to get his answer now that he’d broached the subject.

“Elf reasons,” Iorveth said, his lips twitching again, though Roche knew he was only _half_ joking.

“Elf reasons,” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“If you want a sonnet about the warmth of your eyes, Dandelion is in Novigrad,” Iorveth said.

“I sincerely doubt Dandelion is interested.”

Iorveth shrugged. “His descriptions of me have always been very flattering, even when he doesn’t intend them to be. He’s a man who sees the beauty in everything.”

“And elves are so challenging to see beauty in,” Roche commented wryly.

Iorveth raised an eyebrow.

“I always imagined you kept your hair short,” Roche said, dying to reach out and touch it but not sure he’d be welcome.

“I learned to hide it after the first time a drunken soldier held me down and cut it off with his sword when I was little more than a boy.”

Roche’s mouth fell open. It was easy to forget that Iorveth had been young, once, and innocent, but of course he had.

Even Roche had a kind of innocence once upon a time. And Geralt must have had, too, before he was turned into a witcher.

“I’m sorry.”

Iorveth huffed. “I think we can safely assume that you hadn’t been born at the time. Indeed, that your _parents_ hadn’t been born. Or thought of. And it is by no means the worst fate I’ve ever suffered at the hands of a human. He was practically gentle about it.”

“Aside from you, elves have done very little to harm me personally,” Roche said.

Iorveth grinned at that. “I aim to be exceptional.”

If that was true, then Iorveth had more than met his aim.

“I dreamed of you,” Iorveth said suddenly. “After the first time we met. I don’t expect you to understand why that’s important.”

“I know harpies are very attracted to elven dreams,” Roche said carefully. “Because of the power.”

Iorveth hummed approvingly. “Geralt will be thrilled to know you’ve been paying attention to him.”

Roche smiled wryly. “He likes to be paid attention to.”

To Roche’s surprise, Iorveth chuckled. “He’s a surprisingly simple man, under it all.”

“So the dreams…”

“Geralt collected one of mine once, you know,” Iorveth continued. “From a harpy. It… he… gave it back. And remembered it, and this… this is as close to it as I’ve ever come. Living here, I mean.”

“He feels deeply for you,” Roche said softly. The one thing he was absolutely sure of in this situation was that Iorveth was here because Geralt loved him.

And possibly because, ironically, Iorveth was one of the people who’d been kindest to him. If Geralt’s stories about the man were true.

More than ever, Roche believed they were.

“He does. And I dream of him… almost constantly.” Iorveth rolled onto his back, sighing heavily as he looked up at the ceiling.

Roche watched the lines of his throat work as he swallowed. “But I dreamed of you first. And that… as distressing as it was at the time…”

“You couldn’t help it,” Roche said aloud as he realised it himself.

“I couldn’t,” Iorveth agreed after a moment.

“I think I understand.” Roche rolled onto his own back.

Between them, their fingers brushed together. Roche didn’t make a move to stop that, and neither did Iorveth. The point of contact was a cove in a storm, a respite from everything they were addressing right now.

“You are stunningly attractive,” Roche said after a moment, aiming at lightening the mood.

Iorveth laughed. An actual laugh, not the derisive snort or soft huff of amusement Roche had almost gotten used to hearing from him. Real, delighted laughter.

He tucked the sound away in his mind, already planning ways to hear it again.

“I was serious.”

“I know,” Iorveth said, amusement still dancing around his tone. “Humans… have a very different sense of aesthetic pleasure than elves do. I was never pretty for an elf. I should have known I’d end up… attached to humans.”

_Humans_.

Plural.

Roche swallowed.

“A cruel irony if ever there was one.”

“No, a cruel irony is that I’ve been trying to get you into bed naked for a week and now that I’ve accomplished it, I’m too overwhelmed to do anything about it.”

This time, it was Roche’s turn to laugh.

“Sleep, then,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Iorveth hummed, turning back onto his side.

Within moments, Roche could tell that he was asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Warm afternoon light streamed through the window when Roche woke again, but that wasn’t the first thing he noticed.

The first thing he noticed was the way Iorveth’s arms were wrapped around him, holding him in place like steel bands.

Up until recently, he would have panicked in a hold like this.

Now, he was unwilling to give it up.

In hindsight, he might have been able to predict that this was likely to happen. Iorveth seemed to be attracted to warmth the way a cat was.

“You're awake,” the elf in question drawled a moment later. His grip eased off very slightly, just enough to let Roche know that if he absolutely _had_ to move, Iorveth would allow it.

Not that Roche was overly inclined to move.

“In the strictest sense of the word,” Roche mumbled.

Iorveth chuckled behind him, a warm sound that rumbled through Roche’s body.

His long-fingered hand shifted, splaying over Roche’s belly, thumb stroking the soft, unmarked skin there.

“This is… nice,” Iorveth said after a moment, his breath ghosting over Roche’s neck.

It was hard to argue with that, though strange to be held like a cherished lover by a man who hadn’t quite managed to make a decisive move yet.

Perhaps this was just what elves were like.

He barely had time to finish that thought before Iorveth’s hand began to creep lower, short nails raking through the nest of hair between Roche’s thighs.

He was too old to wake like a young man, cock hard and eager, but the first brush of Iorveth’s fingertips against him sent a jolt of pleasure deep into his belly, and a rush of warmth to his groin.

“Oh,” Roche breathed, his hips rocking forward to push his cock into Iorveth’s hand.

The softest brush of lips against his neck made him gasp.

“I’ve waited for this,” Iorveth said. “For longer than you can imagine.”

“I'm here,” Roche murmured, because it seemed like the kind of thing to say.

Once they’d gotten this over and done with, he expected his head to be clearer. To understand where they stood, and what was going on.

Iorveth curled his fingers around Roche’s rapidly hardening cock, swiping his thumb over the head. Roche’s teeth dug deep into his bottom lip, stifling a whimper.

It had been too long. _Much_ too long.

Iorveth’s touch crackled over Roche’s skin like a damp log exploding in a roaring campfire. Every place he made contact felt impossibility hot, oversensitive.

It might have been too long, but this was new, too. Different. Unlike anything Roche had felt before, in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

Iorveth was easily the most dangerous man he’d ever slept with. That might have had something to do with it.

The first touch of Iorveth’s hot, hard cock against the back of Roche’s thigh finally made him moan, pushing back to feel more of it. Iorveth panted in his ear, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Roche wasn’t alone in enjoying this.

Gods, if… literally anyone who’d ever known him could see him now, they’d expire on the spot.

Except Geralt, who apparently _wanted_ to see this, and that was suddenly an even stranger thought than it had been the first time. Iorveth, who was all lean lines and coiled power, he understood.

He even understood the appeal of watching one’s lover fuck someone else, under certain circumstances.

It was his own appeal that he still couldn’t fathom. Very few people had actually _wanted_ to fuck him in his life, and most of them had been drunk.

The rest had been paid.

And suddenly this beautiful elf was pushing his surprisingly thick cock between the tops of Roche’s thighs, nudging the back of his balls, rubbing against the sensitive spot behind them, even pressing up against Roche’s hole, as though he knew that _this_ was Roche’s preference, that his desire to be taken was rarely fulfilled, that he could never quite trust anyone to do it no matter how badly he wanted it.

He wondered if this was how elves fucked, whether they came together lazily like this whenever they had a free moment, or whether this was what Iorveth thought humans did. He’d ask later.

Roche’s head spun as he imagined Iorveth pushing inside him, his mind going to the little bottle of oil that was still sitting on his nightstand.

He couldn’t ask for that. Not now, not yet. Not when he was still half-expecting Iorveth to slit his throat.

Although… bleeding out with a beautiful elf’s cock inside him would have been a delightful _and_ delightfully ironic way to go.

Roche shoved the thought aside, concentrating instead on the firm grip Iorveth had on him, on the building pressure in his belly.

Pride made him want to last, but lust made him want to come. He suddenly, desperately wanted to come all over the long fingers wrapped around him, moaning the name of the most frustrating creature who’d ever walked the earth, knowing that he was getting off on this, too.

He could feel sticky precome spreading between his thighs, Iorveth’s cock leaking freely.

The thought made his stomach lurch, arousal flooding his belly, making him feel impossibly hot and tight. He was so close, so desperately near to the edge that all thoughts other than coming, other than the grip of Iorveth’s fingers, the delicious friction of his cock between his thighs fled his mind.

His orgasm took him, more or less, by surprise. One moment he’d let his mind drift back to the truly incredible idea of having Iorveth inside him, reducing him to his most base state, and then Iorveth moaned into his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

And then he was coming, thick spurts spilling over the elf’s hand.

A gasp was all the warning he got that he’d set Iorveth off as well, the elf’s hips bucking against him, his hand splaying out to hold Roche in place as he rode the space between his thighs, finally coming all over the back of Roche’s balls.

Roche’s head spun at the feeling, and if he hadn’t _just_ come, he might have been able to go again based on it alone.

As it was, he was too old for multiple rounds, no matter how aroused he was by the thought that he’d made Iorveth--Iorveth, fearless Scoia’tael commander and absolute terror to humans--come all over him.

As long as he lived, Roche would never, ever forget how good that felt.

If he’d realised sex with Iorveth would be so… intensely gratifying, physically _and_ emotionally, he might have done this a long time ago.

He might even have taken the risk of being shot for his trouble.

Iorveth sighed a heavy sigh as his hips finally stilled, keeping his grip on Roche firm.

They’d made a mess, but neither of them seemed to be in too much of a hurry to clean it up. If Roche knew _anything_ about elves, though--and he liked to think he knew more than the average human--then the urge to be clean would hit Iorveth long before it hit him, and that would save him getting up first.

Which was just as well, because he wasn’t entirely sure his legs would support him.

“Not bad for an old man,” Iorveth murmured breathlessly.

“ _You_ have absolutely no business calling _me_ old,” Roche grumbled back, though there was no real bite in it. Iorveth could call him whatever he wanted.

Sex had always had a way of mellowing Roche out, and if sex like that was on offer… Iorveth could insult him from sunrise to sunset, as long as they fucked overnight.

Iorveth snorted, nuzzling the back of Roche’s neck.

Roche realised, then, that he would have liked to see Iorveth’s face as he came. Would have liked to see it twisted in pleasure, for once, instead of maddeningly passive.

As Roche had predicted, Iorveth was the first to rise.

“We’re filthy,” he complained, heading for the small washbasin set on the other side of the room. Roche smirked, pleased with himself for being right about elven fastidiousness.

He gasped at the first touch of the cool cloth, but Iorveth’s touches were more tender than cursory. Something had indeed shifted between them, and Roche was quickly finding that he liked it.

Fucking Iorveth was _definitely_ more fun than fighting him.

Possibly just as dangerous, though, albeit in a different way if the traitorous fluttering in his chest was anything to go by.

He was _not_ going to fall in love with his arch nemesis like something out of a cheap ballad.

Not even if Iorveth curled up behind him, and pressed his nose to Roche’s neck, and held him while he fell asleep all over again.

 


	14. Chapter 14

The sun was beginning to set the next time Roche woke.

Iorveth was gone from the bed, but as he rolled over, Roche discovered him lounging on one of the sofas on the other side of the guest room, a book open in his lap.

It was such a strange sight, Iorveth the relaxed scholar, unashamed of his nudity, the last of the afternoon light highlighting every gorgeous angle of his body.

Roche felt his heart lurch, and hated himself a little for it.

Unfortunately, at some point over the last few weeks, Iorveth had transformed from sworn enemy to complex, utterly fascinating friend.

Lover, even, considering earlier events.

The urge to _confess_ to someone hit him square in the chest, but there was no one left to confess to. He didn’t know where Ves was, having forced her to flee to safety when the political tide had turned yet again and Emhyr had decided that he didn’t, actually, wish to count a regicide among his courtiers.

Wise, honestly. Emhyr had largely proven an effective and stable leader, at least compared to Radovid, but Roche was jaded by now. He would have slipped a knife between the man’s ribs without a second thought at the slightest provocation.

“I was wondering if you’d ever wake,” Iorveth said, startling Roche out of his thoughts.

“I normally wouldn’t trust enough to fall asleep,” Roche said, feeling compelled to be honest with Iorveth.

Probably, that would be his downfall, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

“I’m flattered,” Iorveth said. “Or insulted, perhaps, that you think I’ve become toothless.”

Roche snorted. “Not remotely. But I don’t believe you’d kill me, and if you did… well, at least you got me off spectacularly first.”

Iorveth chuckled. “Your standards are painfully low. That was more akin to an awkward fumble.”

Roche’s heart sank. Iorveth had decided against going further, then.

“I didn’t mean that as a criticism,” Iorveth said after a moment, his tone suddenly kind in a way Roche had never heard it before. “It reminded me of being young again.”

“I’m not supposed to tell you I know this, but Geralt mentioned you were, uh… a man of few lovers.”

“You bring the total to three,” Iorveth said, as though the fact didn’t bother him at all.

Perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps the desire for conquest was utterly, inescapably human.

“Might I ask…?”

“Cedric,” Iorveth said, anticipating the question. “You might remember him.”

Roche swallowed. “I didn’t… I had nothing to do with…”

“I know.” Iorveth nodded. “I’m afraid that, regardless of what fate wanted of the two of us, I could never have forgiven you for that.”

“He seemed kind. And wise.”

Iorveth smiled wryly. “Both vastly kinder and wiser than me, in any case. And my elder by a good few decades, and yet he still found a way to love me.”

“You miss him,” Roche said, mentally kicking himself immediately after for stating the bloody obvious.

“Of course. I’m sure you’ve also loved and lost.”

Roche swallowed, thinking of a man with blond hair and green eyes who he’d lost all too quickly, and who he’d never really had--not wholly, anyway--in the first place.

He’d never told Ves how he really felt about her father. Or at least, never revealed the true depth of his feelings.

He’d simply treated her like his own daughter, in place of a man they’d both sorely wished was still alive.

“I sincerely hope I didn’t kill him,” Iorveth said after a moment.

Roche believe that he was, in fact, sincere.

“Before your time,” Roche said, then realised what he was saying. “Rather, before you had any idea who I was. The man who killed him is dead.”

The look in Iorveth’s eyes told Roche that he didn’t need to add _because I killed him._

“Good,” Iorveth said.

“Where’s Geralt?” Roche asked after a moment. He wasn’t so naive that he thought Iorveth would be sitting up here if the witcher was around to entertain him.

“On a contract. Nothing out of the ordinary, he assured me. He had promised to be back by sunset, but… his sense of time is about what you’d expect from a man who’s never had to keep an appointment in his life.”

Roche snorted. He was fond of Geralt, honestly. More than fond. But there was no doubt in his mind that being attached to a witcher came with all kinds of complications.

“Vernon,” Iorveth said, the word sounding foreign in his mouth, no matter how soft his tone was. No one called Roche by his first name.

“My heart will always be split,” he continued. “I will never be yours alone.”

Roche swallowed.

He hadn’t considered that Iorveth might even be _slightly_ his.

His mind flashed back to Iorveth talking about dreams. His own dreams, of Roche, and of Geralt.

That meant more, he was beginning to realise, than he’d initially given it credit.

“I never expected you would be,” Roche responded, his voice uncharacteristically thick with emotion.

Gods, to have even _part_ of the beautiful elf lounging on the other side of the room as his own…

Even the smallest sliver of his attention, his affection, his attraction.

Heat flared in Roche’s belly at the thought.

“Fate is a strange mistress,” Iorveth said after a few moments.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned fate,” Roche said, feeling as though another piece of the puzzle he’d been given was about to slot into place.

Iorveth smiled an odd, distant smile, but there was fondness in it. “You’re sharper than I gave you credit. Perhaps you will figure this out all by yourself, after all.”

“You dreamed of me,” Roche said. “And that… that has something to do with fate. It was more than a… than the sort of unfortunate dream one wakes up from in a hot sweat.”

The smile on Iorveth’s face turned into a smirk. “Dreams like that are a purely human affliction. I didn’t even know about them until Geralt told me. He thought the same, at first, for the record. When I brought up dreaming of him.”

On the basis that Roche had experienced more than one, uh, _unfortunate_ dream about Geralt, that made a great deal of sense.

“Are you telling me elves don’t dream about sex?” Roche asked, all other thoughts fleeing his mind for the moment.

“I never have,” Iorveth said. “And I do not believe my experience to be unusual. Elves tend not to view sex the way humans do, and simply _sate_ their needs as and when they desire, with no shame.”

“Then why aren’t we overrun with elven children?” Roche asked.

Iorveth chuckled. “Children are rare and precious. We are only fertile for a brief period of our lives, and… we tend to prefer the company of our own sex, otherwise. Procreation takes up but a few short years, for those who are inclined to bear and raise a child.”

Roche could feel his eyebrows climbing further up his forehead. “And then you just _abandon_ them?” he asked, shocked at the thought.

He had, in his life, spent some time thinking poorly of elves, but never so poorly as to imagine that they might just… discard their children once they were old enough to flee the nest.

“An elf of twenty is approximately as wilful and difficult as a human of twenty,” Iorveth explained. “We tend to remove ourselves from our parents early, seeking other bonds. Long life encourages finding people who best suit us. And those of us who are destined for mating bonds are called to them from a very young age. Except mine hadn’t been born yet. I’ve always been a little odd.”

“Geralt,” Roche said, realising who Iorveth was talking about. He could see it in their every interaction that there was something between them, something powerful, unbreakable.

Fate itself. Drawing them together.

“And you,” Iorveth said after a moment.

Roche’s mouth fell open.

Iorveth had dreamed of him.

Iorveth had dreamed of him, and that, as far as Iorveth was concerned, made Roche his mate.

One of two. Both human, for a given definition of the term.

Gods, the way that must have _galled_ him when he realised.

“I fought it, obviously,” Iorveth said, almost as Roche was reaching the same conclusion. “Viciously, as you know. I really thought I might be able to kill you, and at least part of that was _because_ I knew what you were supposed to be to me, and I hated it. I hated it with all the rage of my people.”

Roche couldn’t blame him. Not really.

He would have hated the thought of being stuck with someone like him, too.

“But here we are,” Iorveth said, skipping over the rest of their turbulent personal history to the present day. “And to my genuine surprise, your presence here brings me peace.”

Geralt knew all this, Roche realised.

Knew all this, and loved Iorveth enough to risk sharing him. To risk losing him, perhaps.

He was a better man than anyone gave him credit for.

“I’m your mate,” Roche said after a moment, still trying to wrap his mind around the thought.

Saying the words aloud, though, made a curious surge of pleasure well up in his chest.

“I understand this may be difficult to believe,” Iorveth said, suddenly…

Unsure?

If Roche's head hadn't already been spinning, that would have been enough to set it off.

“In comparison to everything else I've learned over the past few weeks? Not especially,” he said.

Iorveth hummed, apparently satisfied with that answer.

“You don't seem nearly as alarmed as I was. Always harboured a secret longing to be folded into the waiting arms of a murderous elf?”

Roche snorted. “To be entirely honest, I'm simply pleased to be wanted. Doesn't happen often.”

Iorveth's face changed at that, softening.

He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

After a moment of clear indecision, Iorveth rose and bounded down the stairs, not bothering to put any clothes on.

He wondered if the servants were used to that.

Roche rose as well, bed suddenly less appealing now that Iorveth was gone, and pulled on shirt and trousers before heading down as well.

Iorveth already had Geralt sitting at the long table in the middle of the room, fussing over a cut on his forearm that had already stopped bleeding.

Where he expected to feel a pang of jealousy, or sadness at knowing he could never compete with a gorgeous witcher who was Iorveth's equal in every way, Roche only felt a wave of contentment wash over him.

Iorveth was happy.

He looked up from where he was tending to Geralt, muttering something exasperated in his mother tongue, and offered Roche a kind, warm smile.

The smile settled in the pit of Roche’s stomach, butterflies swarming around it.

“Guess I don't need to ask what you two did with your day,” Geralt said, a broad grin spreading over his features. “ _Finally_.”

Warmth rushed to Roche’s cheeks, but he did his best to keep the rest of his features neutral.

Cautiously, Roche moved to sit beside Geralt, unsure what would happen next.

Before he could say anything, or even properly gauge either man’s reaction, Marlene burst into the room with the first of the dishes for supper.

She looked at Iorveth, lingering for perhaps a second longer than was entirely decent, and then smiled.

“Master Iorveth.” She nodded by way of greeting. “Oh, and Master Roche,” she added, smiling at him.

Roche nodded back. He shouldn't have been surprised by her complete calm, and yet…

“I'll dress for dinner,” Iorveth said, bowing gracefully to Marlene and then disappearing into the downstairs bedroom.

Marlene sighed. “I had an elf friend, once. She never liked to keep her clothes on for long, either.”

Roche chuckled at that. Perhaps the cheaply-printed tales of hapless young men running across hidden groves full of naked elves held some truth.

Perhaps Iorveth had simply stopped caring what other people thought. If he ever had.

“I'll talk to him,” Geralt said, in a tone that suggested there was absolutely no point in doing so.

Marlene shrugged. “Oh, I don't mind. I'm old, not dead,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

Roche laughed again. He couldn't argue with that.

“Your contract went well, I take it?” Roche asked as Iorveth emerged from the bedroom, more or less dressed.

Still wearing that shirt that showed more of his torso than it covered, but Roche couldn't bring himself to object.

He settled opposite them, sitting back languidly.

“Draconid. A slyzard, this time.” Geralt explained. “They're common around here, mostly go for livestock. This one mistook a visiting Nilfgaardian diplomat for a cow.”

Roche snorted. “Easy mistake to make,” he said. “Though cows tend to be rather more noble creatures.”

Iorveth smiled at him. Their distaste for all things Nilfgaard was something they had in common.

“Yeah, well, as long as I get paid.” Geralt shrugged.

“And as long as they don't notice you're harbouring a fugitive.”

“Two fugitives,” Iorveth reminded him. “I'll avoid town for a few more days,” he added.

“Why? Ambassador's dead, and half of Beauclair would rush to defend you.”

Roche blinked at that. He knew Iorveth had a penchant for inspiring loyalty, but…

“The duchess is very fond of me,” Iorveth said. “Because I'm so fascinating. I've become very fashionable around here. Get invited to all the nicest parties.”

“Oh, I imagine you adore that.”

“He does,” Geralt said sincerely. “You should see him with an audience. Puts Dandelion to shame.”

Roche hummed at the thought, deciding he _could_ imagine that. Iorveth was nothing if not a showoff.

“I go to keep us in the good graces of the court,” Iorveth said. “I must introduce you,” he added turning on Roche.

Roche’s eyes widened in alarm.

Iorveth's smile only grew wider.

Torturing him was apparently still one of Iorveth's favourite pastimes, regardless of whether or not they were sleeping together.

“You're scaring him,” Geralt said, reaching out to pick at the bread in front of him. Roche took that as a cue to start eating, his body reminding him that he hadn't eaten all day.

“I thought he’d be delighted that I wanted to show him off,” Iorveth said. “Besides, he knows how to behave at occasions like that.”

Roche blushed, focusing on Marlene, who was carrying a second dish laden with food.

Every now and again, the sheer good luck he’d had hit Roche. This was one of those times.

He’d been whisked out of a cold dungeon and the threat of certain death, and set down in this fantasy duchy, where war and famine were no concern to anyone.

And he was _wanted_ here. Even his own self-consciousness couldn't override that knowledge.

It helped that he could still remember Iorveth gasping in his ear, gripping his cock like he never planned on letting go.

“Not much to show off,” Roche said. “Not terribly likely to entertain the nobility quite so much as the novelty of a ballad-worthy rogue.”

“I think they’d very much enjoy the idea of the two of us,” Iorveth said. “Mortal enemies to consummate lovers? We’d be the subject of a play within a week.”

“I’d prefer not to be,” Roche mumbled, shoving a chunk of bread in his mouth to save himself from having to reply.

“You are worthy of showing off, by the way,” Iorveth said after a moment. “You’re a better swordsman than any of the locals. And a more experienced commander. You’d put the knights errant to shame.”

Roche couldn’t help smiling at that. Of course those were the things Iorveth valued about him.

“Thank you,” he said softly between mouthfuls.

“So are you coming to bed with us, or…?” Geralt asked after a moment.

Roche choked, coughing as he fought to swallow properly. Geralt clapped him on the back, though he wasn’t entirely sure it helped at all.

A generous mouthful of wine did help a little, and he wished he’d started drinking _before_ they’d started in on this conversation.

“I wasn’t, uh, that is, umm…” Roche tried and failed to come up with a coherent answer. He could feel how dark his face was flushed at the question.

It was unusual enough for him to be propositioned that he still wasn’t used to it at his age.

_Definitely_ not coming from a man like Geralt. It’d taken long enough for him to get used to the idea of Iorveth.

“You’re invited,” Geralt said. “But no pressure. It’s okay if you need more time.”

Roche’s head spun for what felt like the thousandth time that day.

Perhaps he was never going to get used to this. Perhaps the rest of his life was doomed to be a dizzy whirlwind of constant surprise.

“I think…” Roche began, fully intending at first to say he needed more time.

But then… how often was he going to be offered an opportunity like this? To have not one, but two beautiful partners who seemed to care a great deal about him.

“I think I’d like that,” he said, pushing back against the fear that he’d be inadequate when compared directly with Geralt. Or Iorveth, for that matter.

A smart man would have been eager to give himself to two men he desperately wanted. Roche liked to think of himself as a smart man.

Iorveth's face lit up, and beside him, Geralt made a soft, pleased noise.

“Good,” Geralt said.

Roche waited for him to elaborate on _why_ it was good, but realised after a moment that _good_ had been a complete sentence.

This was bound to be a night to remember.


	15. Chapter 15

Roche let a broken, heartfelt moan escape him as Iorveth poured oil onto the small of his back, hissing at the room-temperature liquid as it rolled over his hot skin.

He could feel Geralt’s eyes on him, gaze burning into him as though he could look directly at a man’s soul.

Maybe he could. After all the things Roche had learned recently, it wouldn’t have been _that_ much of a surprise.

Less of a surprise than the idea of kneeling on Geralt’s bed with his previous sworn enemy, current lover-- _mate?--_ kneeling behind him, gathering the oil up with his fingertips and spreading it lower, making Roche gasp as clever fingers circled his hole.

It had been a long, _long_ time since he’d trusted anyone enough to do this.

All the same, he found himself eager for it, his cock already straining up toward his belly. Iorveth had pushed him down on the bed, kissed him, rutted against him as Geralt undressed, barely looking away.

And then Iorveth had peeled his clothes off, pressing kisses to his skin as it was exposed, making him writhe against the mattress.

As foreplay went, it was more than Roche had ever gotten before.

Iorveth continued to tease, putting too little pressure on Roche’s hole to breach him, making him squirm and wriggle for more, but always taking his fingers away.

“Have you decided who you want first?” Iorveth murmured in his ear, finally pushing a finger inside as Roche shivered at the thought of having a choice.

He was surprised to find that he knew, already, without having to think about it.

“You,” he murmured, heat blooming in his belly as he said it.

Geralt had a lot of attractive qualities, and Roche had harboured more than a few fantasies about him for a long time, but…

Iorveth had been a part of his life rather longer. An obsession from the beginning, and now his unlikely saviour and friend.

Besides, he’d said _first_. Which meant that eventually, Roche would get what he wanted from Geralt.

And Geralt _had_ said he wanted to watch.

Roche groaned as Iorveth twisted the tip of his finger inside him, working it in past the second knuckle. It’d been so long that Roche barely remembered how to relax into this, but as his arousal built, as heat flooded his belly, he could feel stubborn, nervous muscles giving way.

Iorveth made a soft sound of approval behind him, a low purr that Roche wasn't sure any human could replicate.

Twelve years since the last time he’d done this. Gods, he was _more_ than ready for it, eager to be filled and fucked, to feel Iorveth’s cock inside him.

“That's the way,” Iorveth encouraged, pressing the tip of a second finger to him. “Easy now. I won't hurt you.”

Roche nodded, truly believing that. He’d earned Roche's trust, strange as that might have seemed.

“You are _impossibly_ tight,” Iorveth said.

“Been a long time,” Roche explained. “I haven't… I couldn't…”

“Let go,” Iorveth said, and Roche wasn't sure whether he was completing the sentence for him or issuing an order.

His body took it as the latter, something giving way inside him, Iorveth's fingers suddenly less of a tolerable intrusion, more a pleasurable presence.

He moaned, low and long, no longer caring whether he looked or sounded like he was employed in a brothel.

He heard Geralt grunt from beside them, glancing over to see the witcher palming his own cock, lounging on his side. Enjoying the show.

Roche realised belatedly that Geralt's sexual experience undoubtedly dwarfed both his and Iorveth's combined by several orders of magnitude.

And yet here he was, cock hard and leaking in his hand at the sight of the two of them together.

Once again, Roche found his head light, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Every inch of him was on fire, arousal making him burn with need.

He could feel more fingers inside him now, his hips rocking back to meet them, silently begging for more.

“So eager,” Iorveth purred, and then murmured something in Elder Speech.

He knew in his heart that it was more tender endearment than name-calling. Not least of all because the words were utterly unfamiliar.

Roche opened his mouth to demand that Iorveth get _on_ with it just as the elf withdrew his fingers.

A shudder of anticipation ran through Roche's body. He bit down on his lip and let his eyes fall closed, spreading his thighs further apart even though his arms ached from holding himself up.

The first press of Iorveth's cock against his hole made him moan, the heat of it overwhelming.

A heavy bead of precome welled up at the tip of his own cock, spilling over and then rolling partway down the length before dripping off.

Roche gritted his teeth as Iorveth finally pushed inside him, resisting the urge to bear down as he was completely, utterly filled to his limits, his belly already aching with the length and thickness of Iorveth's cock.

Roche could feel the wicked curve of it inside him, pressing hard on the sensitive place that made all the trust and preparation this required worth it.

“Gods,” he gritted out, forcing himself to breathe through the waves of feeling crashing over him, desperate not to come like an untried boy.

He wanted to savour this. To get to know the shape and feel of Iorveth's cock inside him by heart.

He wanted to be thoroughly, mercilessly fucked, left wrung out and trembling, having forgotten his own name.

Iorveth stilled once he was all the way inside, and Roche could hear him panting harshly. At least he wasn't the _only_ one feeling a little overwhelmed.

“How are you so warm?” Iorveth asked, wonder in his voice. An experimental rock of his hips made them both moan with pleasure.

“Faster metabolism,” Geralt answered for him, his voice delightfully strained.

Roche had no idea what that meant, and he probably wasn't going to remember to ask later.

Iorveth rocked his hips again, ignoring Geralt for the moment.

Ignoring him in favour of _Roche_ , which was both unexpected and incredible.

Iorveth’s arm wrapped around his chest, grasping his good shoulder and then tugging, lifting him clear off the bed and up to his knees, so he was sitting in Iorveth’s lap, his cock driven even deeper inside Roche’s body.

A low, needy moan tore free of Roche’s throat, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. He rocked his hips, hissing at the new angle, at how much fuller he suddenly felt.

Iorveth planted his other hand firmly on Roche’s thigh, long fingers brushing the sensitive flesh on the inside. Beside his ear, he could hear the soft, satisfied laughter he was beginning to associate with Iorveth when he was aroused, the subtle joy in it infectious.

This felt so good, so fundamentally _right_ that Roche could almost believe he really was Iorveth’s mate.

Before now, sex had always made Roche feel guilty, or weak, as though he was giving in where he shouldn’t have, where he should have gone without. It made him afraid, no matter how much he wanted it.

Now, for the first time, there was no fear.

In the lap of an elf with more blood on his hands than even the most enthusiastic soldiers would think to aspire to. But always for a cause. Always out of love for his people, and a desperate desire for his race not to fade away.

Roche had already found himself sympathising. Why shouldn’t he fall utterly in love?

The thought felt heavy in his chest, but not _wrong_.

Too soon. That was all. He wasn’t ready to be in love, to be anyone’s mate.

But he had it in him. It was only a matter of time.

Roche groaned as Iorveth lowered the hand on his shoulder, trailing it down his chest and stomach, finally curling it around his hard, desperately leaking cock. The last thing Roche wanted was for this to be over, to lose the satisfying fullness inside him, but he wanted to come.

Gods did he want to come, arousal burning inside him, the heavy heat of his orgasm already pressing down on his balls. Every movement of Iorveth’s cock inside him made him gasp for air, the sparks of pleasure as he skimmed over the sensitive place inside him overwhelming in their intensity.

Roche summoned as much strength as he could to glance over at Geralt, finding him still palming his cock, though obviously not in any hurry to finish. Enjoying the show.

A rush of heat flooded down Roche’s spine to his belly, tearing a groan from deep inside him as he started to come, bucking his hips wildly to get more friction from Iorveth, more of his hand, more of his cock.

Iorveth responded by tightening his grip on Roche’s thigh, keeping him in place and thrusting into him, sharp, firm movements that hit just as every wave of pleasure crested, sending him tumbling into another one until his vision whited out and his balls ached from coming.

Just as he thought he was done, too spent to so much as twitch, Iorveth bit down on his good shoulder, grunted through his nose, and came inside him. Roche made a soft, defeated noise, the sensation making him shudder all the way to his core.

He’d entirely forgotten what _this_ part felt like, and the sound he made was enough to cause him to blush in embarrassment, despite having been sure he was over it. Lights danced in front of his eyes, the same ones he saw just before he was about to pass out.

Suddenly, he was being moved to the bed, flipped onto his back.

Surprisingly soft lips pressed against his, and his mind told him it was Iorveth, kissing him for the first time, making desperate little sounds as he swiped his tongue over Roche’s bottom lip, silently pleading for him to part them.

Roche wasn’t accustomed to being kissed, before, during, or after sex, or separate from it. Quick, meaningless encounters had been the best he’d gotten in a long time, none of them holding much if any affection.

And now this beautiful, maddening elf was kissing him breathless and rutting against him as though he genuinely believed that Roche was likely to be able to go another round without at least a nap between times, and his heart was swelling in his chest so tightly he was almost afraid it might burst.

A moment later, Roche’s eyes widened as Iorveth’s cock twitched against his thigh, the warmth in it telling him that Iorveth… could go another round, probably, within perhaps a few minutes.

It was just as well he had two mates.

Roche panted for breath as the kiss broke off, his heart swooping as Iorveth gave him a look of dismay.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said softly, reaching out and tracing along Iorveth’s undamaged cheekbone, since he’d been good enough to avoid Roche’s most injured parts.

“It’s that he physically can’t,” Geralt interjected. Another time, Roche might have been annoyed by the interruption, but he suspected that Geralt saying it would lend weight to the fact, in Iorveth’s mind.

Iorveth’s expression turned to a frown, and then to an eyeroll. “You people talk and talk and _talk_ about sex and you’re done after one… one…”

“Orgasm,” Geralt supplied.

As upset as he had been at the thought of disappointing Iorveth, Roche was now amused at his indignance that they couldn’t just fuck all night.

“I could, uh… that is, I’m told my mouth is very… umm…”

“I hope you’re not going to say _clever_ ,” Iorveth interrupted, raising an eyebrow. His gaze had already darted to Roche’s lips, though, watching with interest.

“Warm,” Roche finished, suspecting he’d already identified a weak spot for Iorveth.

A soft whimper made Iorveth’s own lips tremble, and Roche felt his cock twitch against him again.

After a moment of staring at Roche’s mouth, Iorveth shook his head. “Not if you can’t enjoy it. We have time.”

As much as Roche suddenly loved the idea of sucking Iorveth’s cock, he was exhausted. If he was going to do it, he wanted to be at the top of his game.

“Go to Geralt,” Roche murmured, surprised by how easy it was to say. “He’s been very patient.”

Iorveth made another soft sound, then darted in and pecked Roche on the lips before rolling away.

Roche took a deep breath, steeling himself to see Geralt and Iorveth together. This was the part, he was afraid, that would bring the whole thing crashing down.

He rolled onto his side, snuggling comfortably into his pillow, and watched Iorveth climb on top of Geralt’s body.

A tiny rush of arousal flooded his belly, and while he knew that he was too old to get hard again without a rest, he was surprised to find that the jealousy he might have expected to feel simply… never materialised.

Instead, a heady combination of joy and lust swelled inside him as he watched Iorveth slick Geralt’s cock. Roche bit down on his lip as Iorveth raised himself up onto Geralt’s hips, sinking down on the witcher’s cock in one fluid movement, with apparently no human need for preparation.

Geralt reached out toward him across the expanse of the bed, gesturing for him to move closer. Roche hesitated a moment, then gave in, shuffling his way over until he was almost pressed up against Geralt’s side.

To his surprise, Geralt grabbed him and hauled him closer one-handed, tugging on Roche until he was resting with his head on Geralt’s shoulder, giving him an unobstructed view of his cock disappearing into Iorveth’s body, the elf’s powerful thighs working as he fucked himself eagerly.

Roche felt Geralt’s lips on the top of his head, and his heartbeat sped up so quickly and violently that he worried for a moment that he might expire.

He took the risk of placing a hand on Geralt’s stomach, his thumb going automatically to an old scar and tracing the line of it, a surge of affection rolling through him.

“Thank you,” Roche said, not entirely sure what he was thanking Geralt _for_.

Everything, he supposed. Everything he’d done for him, right up to this moment.

Iorveth leaned down, kissing Geralt with equal parts urgency and tenderness, his hand curling around his own cock, pulling eagerly on it.

His free hand went to Roche’s cheek, and he twisted his body to kiss him, too, deep and just as tender, and if Roche’s heart didn’t give out on him before the night was over, it would be a miracle.

He swallowed Iorveth’s moan as he came, his own cock giving a valiant effort at getting hard again from the sheer force of arousal before giving up a moment later.

If Roche survived this, it would _easily_ be the best night of his life.

A low, answering groan from Geralt told Roche he’d come as well. The sound made him shudder again, another wave of arousal washing over him.

If this was retirement, then it was much better than he’d imagined it would be. _Definitely_ better than being put out to pasture signing unimportant letters about the business of an absolutely, intentionally toothless army.

Emhyr could have Temeria, with his blessing, if this was what he got in exchange.

After a few moments of catching his breath, Iorveth rose from where he’d collapsed on top of Geralt and moved to the wash stand over at the side of the room, wetting and wringing out a cloth.

He returned and cleaned all three of them up, as he had with Roche before, and then tossed the cloth back in the basin before worming his way in between Roche and Geralt’s bodies, forcing both men to move without saying so much as a word.

Geralt didn’t argue any more than Roche did, so he took this to be normal Iorveth behaviour. If Roche hadn’t already been sure that Geralt was utterly in love with him, he would have been now.

Iorveth turned to face him, snuggling up against his side and pressing his nose into the crook of Roche’s neck.

At Roche’s hip, he could feel that Iorveth’s cock was already half-hard again.

He took it as a compliment, and let his eyes fall closed and his mind shut off to the soft sound of two other heartbeats.


	16. Chapter 16

Roche woke with arms wrapped around him again, though it took him a few moments to realise that it was _not_ the arms he expected.

Geralt was holding him with the same steely grip Iorveth had, his long hair tickling Roche’s shoulder where it had spilled over it.

Roche only needed to sigh to wake the witcher. It was unfortunate that he couldn’t sleep soundly even in his own bed, but then perhaps that had more to do with the presence of an unfamiliar body than anything.

Even an unfamiliar body he was slowly squeezing the life out of.

“Morning,” Geralt rumbled behind him, apparently more than aware of who he was holding.

Under other circumstances, Roche might have been affronted by the liberty. Under _these_ circumstances, well… it was nice to be held, and nice to know that Geralt was not, after all, upset with him.

The opposite, if the hard cock pressing against the back of Roche’s thigh meant anything.

The thought that he was going to be ploughed to death between Iorveth and Geralt made him laugh. Not the _worst_ way to go, certainly.

“Good morning,” Roche said as soon as he was sure he had the power of speech.

“Regretting your decision yet?” Geralt asked, humour in his voice.

“Hardly,” Roche murmured, snuggling back to emphasise his point. Geralt was warm, and solid, and Roche so rarely woke up with anyone like that.

“Told you he was great in bed,” Geralt said.

Roche snorted. “You might have _warned_ me.”

“And missed out on the look on your face?” he asked, finally loosening his hold on Roche and rolling away.

Roche turned to face him, gathering more of the quilt around his body to make up for the loss of heat.

“He was disappointed,” Roche said, his stomach clenching at the thought. Just as he’d gotten used to the idea…

Geralt chuckled, but it wasn’t cruel at all. “Only because he still wanted you. Take it as a compliment. And stop worrying that you’re not enough.”

Roche looked up to meet Geralt’s eyes. “I didn’t know you also read minds.”

“Not minds, but people.” Geralt shrugged. “I know you. Put you in charge of a battle or an interrogation, you don’t doubt yourself for a second. So you make up for it by doubting yourself in everything else.”

“When did he tell you?” Roche asked. “That he thought I was his mate.”

“He doesn’t _think_ anything,” Geralt corrected. “He knows, whether or not you agree.”

Roche swallowed. Geralt’s loyalty was admirable, and something he would have loved to have for himself.

He had no idea yet whether or not he agreed, but some part of him _wanted_ to. Wanted to think that he could have this, strange as it was.

“While we were on the road to rescue you,” Geralt said. “He rushed in here one day and told me we were going. Once I knew it was you…”

Roche smiled at that. “Well, thank you. This is much more pleasant than a dungeon.”

“There was always something missing,” Geralt said after a moment. “Before he told me about you, I couldn’t figure out what it was. We should have been at peace, but… it’s meant to be the three of us. That’s why it’s so easy for me to be okay with this. Since I know you’re wondering.”

“I was,” Roche said, nodding. “Thank you.”

The door to the bedroom swung open, and a fully-dressed Iorveth poked his head inside. “Much as it warms my black, twisted heart to see you two so cosy, I must interrupt. There’s a wine merchant here to see Geralt.”

Geralt sighed heavily. “Who knew running a vineyard would be harder than being a witcher?” he asked, rolling out of bed and grabbing his hastily-discarded shirt from yesterday.

By the time he was ready to search for trousers, Iorveth was holding them out for him. Geralt hopped into them, tying the fastenings and kissing Iorveth’s cheek on the way past as he left the warmth and comfort of the bedroom to deal with the apparently greatly distasteful matter of the merchant.

“I wanted to apologise,” Iorveth said. “For my reaction last night. Humans are largely a mystery to me.”

“And elves a mystery to me, as it turns out,” Roche said, forcing himself to sit up. “As long as I haven’t broken your heart by being limited and middle-aged.”

Iorveth chuckled, moving to sit down on the bed beside him. “You’re the youngest person under this roof,” he said.

“The irony is not entirely lost on me,” Roche said.

“I’ll have to find other ways to enjoy you.” Iorveth smiled slowly. “You haven't broken my heart. I'm excited to learn _all_ your limits.”

Roche swallowed. Back to torture, then.

Sweeter torture than before, though, he was willing to wager.

“Iorveth…” Roche began, still getting used to saying the elf’s name with anything other than disdain.

He _was_ starting to like the way it felt in his mouth though.

Iorveth looked up at him, his gaze bright and attentive. Roche was starting to like the way _that_ felt, too.

“I never thanked you for rescuing me,” Roche said, not sure how else to express his gratitude. “Or for going to such lengths to heal me. Obviously you had reasons, but…”

“Consider it repayment for all the times you utterly failed to capture me,” Iorveth said, beaming at him.

Roche was just getting used to Iorveth smiling at him. He wondered how many others had enjoyed the privilege.

“What made you rise so early?” Roche asked, surprised that Iorveth hadn't taken advantage of the warmth of the bed for much longer.

The faintest blush coloured Iorveth's cheeks.

“There’s a girl in a nearby village with a chest infection. I was checking on her progress. She seems much better.”

Roche blinked. “A human girl?”

“I don't hate humans,” Iorveth said, and then paused. “I do hate humans,” he amended.

“But not all of them, and she is entirely innocent. There are extremely few non-humans in Toussaint, and that isn't an accident. But opinions can change. If this little girl grows up remembering a kind elf who brought her sweets and medicine while she was deathly ill… perhaps things will change. In a hundred years or so.”

Iorveth smiled wryly.

“So you've decided to win hearts and minds instead of breaking them?” Roche raised an eyebrow.

“Is that so hard to believe? All I've ever wanted was to be allowed to live in peace. I even used to live among humans.”

“Really?” Roche asked, surprised to hear it.

Iorveth nodded. “In Vizima, if that’s a shock you can bear,” he said. “But it was never peaceful. Never safe, never without the constant threat that a human would get upset about my mere existence. I learned to fight early, in the streets, always outnumbered. And I patched up friends and acquaintances with the knowledge my mother had passed down to me, and heard horror stories about how humans had treated them, too. And eventually, I’d had enough. When the opportunity to strike back came, I took it.”

Roche nodded, listening intently. As Iorveth spoke, he could feel his chest getting tight, his heart aching.

“It takes a lot for me to trust a human,” Iorveth said.

“And yet you voluntarily sleep next to me.”

“I _trust_ you,” Iorveth confirmed. “But I've always trusted you. You're an honest man, which makes you practically unique.”

Roche snorted. “I wish you’d seen me living in a cave in the Novigrad countryside,” he said. “I felt an incredible kinship with you out there. Even managed to make a few friends among the local Scoia’tael.”

“I know,” Iorveth said. “Word travels. They offered me your head.”

Roche's eyes widened.

“Obviously, I told them not to take it. I advised they either stayed out of your way or gave you aid in fighting a common enemy.”

“Thank you,” Roche said. He was beginning to realise that perhaps Iorveth had been looking out for him for some time.

“Anything for my mate,” Iorveth responded.

Roche’s heart swelled at being called Iorveth's mate so freely, with such tenderness.

He felt as though he was standing on the edge of a cliff, deciding on whether or not to jump into the welcoming arms of the ocean below.

There were few better metaphors for Iorveth than an ocean. Whether his surface was calm or frenzied, his depths were unfathomable.

And Roche wanted to explore them. To dive into his very heart and discover all his secrets.

But he still found himself hesitant to take the first leap.

“You think very loudly,” Iorveth said after a moment.

Roche sighed, climbing out of bed and trying not to groan with the effort. He hadn't realised how sore he was until he got up.

It was a good, pleasant soreness, but he was unused to it.

“I was thinking about the fact that you have _the_ most gorgeous cock I've ever had the pleasure of,” Roche teased, not quite ready to talk about his true feelings as he plucked discarded clothing from the floor.

“You did seem to enjoy yourself,” Iorveth said. If he knew Roche was deflecting, he didn't react to it.

“Geralt encouraged me to see just how good you were in bed,” Roche continued. “I wasn't disappointed.”

“Nor was I,” Iorveth said. “Your responsiveness is incredible. I could listen to you all day. I would, in fact…” he trailed off with a low purr.

“But?” Roche asked, turning to face him. Arousal was already pooling in his belly.

“But I am requested at the ducal palace today,” Iorveth said. “Where I will explain about you, and why it would mean so much to me for your protection to be assured. I’d invite you to come along, but…”

“But it would be an incredible risk,” Roche said.

Iorveth nodded. “One I am unwilling to take. If I have to break you out of _this_ dungeon, I'm afraid we’ll have to flee further afield. And I like living on a vineyard.”

“As do I,” Roche agreed. “I have faith in your negotiating abilities.”

“I have no intention of revealing that you're already in the duchy, of course,” Iorveth said. “So you will be safe regardless of my success.”

“Iorveth, you are not prone to failure,” Roche said softly. “I trust you.”

Iorveth crossed the room, so fast Roche could barely track his movements, and pecked him softly on the lips.

He _definitely_ wasn't used to kisses like that, but damned if he didn't want to be.

“I expect to be gone overnight. Keep Geralt out of trouble for me,” he said.

“I will,” Roche promised, and he would. He’d seen how happy Geralt made Iorveth. Even if he hadn’t liked the man himself, he would have promised the same. Iorveth’s happiness was, suddenly, incredibly important to him.

Not because of any mystical bond that he still wasn’t really sure he believed in. But because the two of them had seen both sides of a painful, bloody, horrifying time in the history of the Northern Realms, and now that they didn’t have to fight anymore, he felt most understood by Iorveth.

For the first time in perhaps his entire life, he was at peace.


	17. Chapter 17

As promised, Roche focused his efforts for the day, largely, on keeping Geralt out of trouble.

He emerged from the villa just in time to to find Geralt about to come to blows with the wine merchant over some insult Geralt had apparently paid him. While Roche believed that Geralt indeed had, and had _intended_ it, he knew whose side he was on.

Iorveth would kill him if he let Geralt get into a fight not ten minutes after he’d left.

Even a fight that wouldn’t see him breaking a sweat.

Roche was quick to remind the merchant that he didn’t want to take on a man who fought monsters for a living, and stepped in as negotiator in Geralt’s place as if he’d been bartering for rations or medical supplies--gentle enough not to lose the deal or encourage tampering, but firm in what he was willing to accept.

When he was done, and the merchant was gone, Geralt stared at him in awe.

“I keep forgetting you’re more than just a good swordsman,” Geralt said. “That was… elegant.”

Roche had literally just realised himself that while he and Iorveth were experienced commanders, Geralt had always been…

Well, a lone wolf. He neither took nor gave orders with any kind of comfort, aside from shouting _get out of the way_ if anything monstrous appeared.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called elegant before,” Roche said. “Thank you.”

“Iorveth told you to watch me, didn’t he?” Geralt asked.

“Of course. And I agreed. But we both know that the best I can do is ask you not to bring the full force of elven fury down on me by getting into trouble on my watch.”

Geralt sighed. “I’m not really in the mood for trouble anyway. You know there’s a new Gwent deck?” he asked.

“I’d heard a vague rumour,” Roche said, interest piqued.

Geralt beamed at him, his face suddenly ten years younger. “Let me show you what I’ve collected so far. Maybe we could play a few rounds?”

Roche’s heart leapt, both at the idea that Geralt _was_ planning on a lazy day and therefore was unlikely to be injured before Iorveth returned, and at the thought of getting to play with an absolutely worthy opponent.

He followed the other man inside, thrilled at the prospect of wasting the day away.


	18. Chapter 18

Roche eyed the four empty wine bottles sitting beside himself and Geralt at the table, just barely beginning to suspect that they might have had something to do with his agreement to bet pieces of clothing on the last few rounds of Gwent.

The candle they were playing by was very near its end, and Roche was sitting in just his underwear, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders for warmth.

He’d managed to win the removal of Geralt’s shirt last round, though, and was now too busy enjoying the view to focus on any meaningful strategy.

He played a card without even looking at the table, busy counting the points of a scarred bite mark on Geralt’s shoulder.

“That’s a siege card,” Geralt said.

Roche looked down and saw he’d placed it in the ranged line. He moved it without a word, knowing that this round was going to see him naked.

At least he couldn’t lose much after that.

“Just keeping you on your toes,” he said, impressed by the evenness of his voice.

They had been at this for hours, and drank slowly, so the effects weren’t as strong as they might have been. The barest loss of judgement, not helped at all by the warm glow of companionship with Geralt that was filling Roche’s chest with a soft, easy joy he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced before.

As expected, he well and truly lost the round when it was over.

Roche sighed, standing up from his chair with just the smallest amount of difficulty balancing. “If this was all an elaborate ploy to see me naked, you might have just told me to undress,” he said.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Geralt beamed at him, folding his arms over his chest, waiting to collect his winnings.

With slightly uncoordinated fingers, Roche loosened the fastenings of his underwear and let them drop to the floor, shivering at the sudden cold.

He could feel the heat of Geralt’s gaze on him, silently assessing.

Geralt, who had spent his life taking his pick of beautiful creatures. At least Iorveth’s experience was limited, and his eyesight less than perfect.

Geralt’s was sharp, and Roche had heard the way the vineyard’s female workers talked about him when he was out of earshot. Even when he was well within earshot, sometimes.

He didn’t need to settle. There was no supposed mating bond tying the two of them together. They could have shared Iorveth, and nothing more.

Strange as it was to believe, though, everything about the way Geralt was looking at him left him thinking that Geralt _wanted_ more. Wanted something between them, too, independent of Iorveth.

Or not _independent_ of, but in addition to. He wanted Roche even when Iorveth wasn’t around.

That was…

“Looks like you’re all out of things to stake,” Geralt said.

“And yet, I sense there’s something else you want,” Roche responded, tension coiling in his belly, a combination of fear and excitement.

“You offered Iorveth your mouth.”

The tension in Roche’s belly went ice cold.

“You might have just _asked_ ,” he said, trying to feign indifference.

He knew he didn’t have to. Intellectually, he _knew_ that he was safe with Geralt, that Geralt wouldn’t intentionally hurt him, but…

Part of him felt tricked. He’d gone along with this, knowing that Geralt would beat him more often than not, but…

Playing for clothing was a little different than playing for sex.

No matter how much he wanted it, how appealing the idea of taking Geralt’s cock in his mouth was, some part of him had started to panic. He was reminded of soldiers laughing at him, knowing about his hopeless attraction to some of them, his lack of interest in women.

Of being offered the opportunity to service them, because why not? Why _shouldn’t_ he want that, since he was…

“Roche?” Geralt asked, apparently noticing his distress. “Your heart rate just shot up and you smell… afraid.”

Roche swallowed. He couldn’t hide a damned thing from a witcher, could he?

And now something as inconvenient as bloody _feelings_ was going to stop him from getting something he’d genuinely fantasised about. All because poor Vernon Roche had taken being teased and insulted to heart a few times.

Gods he was pathetic.

Geralt stood, crossing to where Roche was in two strides and stopping in front of him. Roche looked up at him, feeling his heartbeat calm in the other man’s steadying presence.

Perhaps he was using magic on him.

Though… no. Geralt wouldn’t abuse his trust like that. It was just… nice to have him close.

“I wasn’t being serious. I would never have… forced you, or-”

“I know,” Roche said quickly, and he did know. Geralt was many things, but not that. Never that.

Roche felt the barest touch of fingertips against his jaw, tilting his head up. “We’ve all got demons,” Geralt murmured. “I didn’t know this was one of yours, but I’m sorry for summoning it.”

A lump formed in Roche’s throat, and he was forced to swallow around it. “I am _not_ a soft-hearted sorceress in need of comfort,” he said, though it felt disturbingly like a lie.

Geralt, to his surprise, snorted. “Never met a soft-hearted sorceress. You’ll have to introduce me.”

“You know what I _mean_ ,” Roche said, although his annoyance was making his distress fade quickly. He wondered, briefly, if that was deliberate.

It probably was. Geralt was better with people than he liked to pretend. Even if he’d had a little difficulty dealing with a merchant this morning.

He didn’t care about the merchant, though.

It was a deeply startling realisation that he _did_ care about Roche. Beyond the ways in which he was useful. Beyond keeping him on his side, beyond needing his help.

Roche was here because Geralt cared about him.

_For_ him?

Gods, the thought alone…

Geralt reached out, stroking his fingers against Roche’s scalp as he might have done to soothe someone who had hair. He made a soft, pleased sound as he brushed against the short, coarse strands remaining, four or five weeks of growth.

Roche had been thinking about letting it keep growing, since he was no longer worried about it being used against him.

As Geralt leaned in, his intentions unmistakeable, Roche let his eyes fall closed. He wouldn’t fight this.

His heart swelled in his chest as Geralt’s lips made contact with his own, a gasp escaping him and giving the witcher full access to his mouth, which he took advantage of without hesitation, his clever tongue sliding against Roche’s.

He’d _never_ been kissed like this. Never so confidently, so unabashedly, without a hint of shame or reluctance. Iorveth had been gentle with him, but Geralt obviously didn’t feel the need.

Because Roche had told him not to. He’d practically demanded to be kissed like this.

His confidence rising, he pushed against Geralt’s chest, letting his fingers explore the scarred skin there even as he backed him up against the wall, a suit of armour beside them rattling with the impact.

Geralt made a soft, pleased noise that rumbled in his chest.

He _did_ want to suck Geralt’s cock, and he was going to.

Roche dropped to his knees with a thud, hissing at the sting of hitting the floor when he was far too old for it. His focus shifted quickly to the bulge at the front of Geralt’s trousers, though, the pain in his knees forgotten almost entirely.

Geralt chuckled, though Roche realised a moment later that it wasn’t directed at him.

“You just gonna stand there with your mouth hanging open all night?”

Roche’s stomach went cold again. If it was Marlene, or Barnabas-Basil, he was sure he’d expire on the spot.

But then… Geralt would be kinder to them, so that meant…

“I was freed from my obligations early by drinking-” Iorveth paused to hiccup. “Rather more wine than advisable. But I see I’m not alone.”

He didn’t sound _entirely_ sober, but he didn’t sound entirely drunk, either. Roche wondered idly just how much wine it would take to really knock an elf off-balance.

The only elf he’d _ever_ seen drunk was Cedric, back in Lobinden, and the smell of the moonshine he’d been sipping from a flask suggested it was several orders of magnitude stronger than Toussaint wine, which the locals drank more or less like water.

And even then, Cedric had been happy to spend his days on a high perch, shooting the occasional hare in the forest from so far away that a human couldn’t even _see_ it. And he hadn’t ever managed to fall to his death.

Iorveth had apparently spent all day drinking and ridden home in the pitch dark without incident.

“We’ve been keeping out of trouble,” Roche said. “As per your orders, commander Iorveth,” he added, his final glass of wine starting to hit him.

Well, wine, and a sense of giddy excitement at Iorveth’s return.

“Strange, you look as though you’re about to get _into_ trouble,” Iorveth said, and though Roche had missed him coming inside, he could now hear the elf’s footsteps loud and clear, approaching them.

“Please don't stop on my account,” Iorveth said after a moment.

To Roche's surprise, he dropped to the floor behind him, both strong, long-fingered hands curling around his shoulders.

Not wanting to disappoint anyone--himself included--Roche turned his attention back to Geralt's cock.

He licked his lips, then leaned in, pressing his nose against Geralt's belly and breathing in his scent. He wondered then how much more intense he and Iorveth both smelled to Geralt, if he could recognise them by that alone.

He’d ask later.

Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Geralt's trousers, he paused for what he knew would be an agonising moment before pulling them down along with his underwear, freeing his cock.

Roche wet his lips. He hadn't gotten a good look at Geralt before, but he’d expected to be impressed, and, well…

Impressed, he definitely was.

Behind him, Iorveth hummed softly, pressing a kiss to the back of Roche’s neck. His hands trailed down to Roche’s waist, fingers digging into his flesh. Just enough to feel it, just enough to be reminded that Iorveth was _there_.

As though the warm body pressing against Roche’s back and the warmer bulge nestled against his backside weren't reminder enough.

Part of Roche wanted to make a joke about the sheer size of Geralt's cock, but the rest of him just _wanted_ it, and he was too wine-warmed to resist the urge to lick a stripe up the underside, dipping his tongue into the slit to taste the very first drops of salty precome welling up there.

A soft, needy sound escaped him at the first taste, giving away how desperately he wanted this.

Iorveth kissed behind his ear, reminding Roche that it was more than time to explore the tips of Iorveth's. Campfire stories told by soldiers boasting of their conquests suggested that elven women liked being touched there, or at least liked to pretend they did.

Roche had _always_ been curious, and he planned on sating his curiosity as soon as he was done with Geralt.

He raised one hand to Geralt's hip, knowing that he couldn't possibly hold him in place if Geralt didn't want to be held. The other, he trailed along Geralt’s thigh, knowing how much _he_ enjoyed that soft, subtle contact.

The single time anyone had done this for him, anyway.

Based on the sounds Geralt was making, he liked it, too.

Roche could feel his own arousal returning with full force as he sucked the head of Geralt's cock into his mouth, grasping the rest of the length with the hand that had been stroking his thigh.

Iorveth's hands moved as well, one splayed over Roche’s belly, the other tracing patterns on the inside of his thigh, as if he knew he was doing to Geralt what he enjoyed himself.

Come to think, it wasn't much of a leap.

The weight of Geralt's cock in his mouth made Roche moan around it, his belly tensing as a wave of arousal washed over him, Iorveth's fingers dancing dangerously close to his own half-hard cock.

He could feel Iorveth’s hips rolling in tiny circles against him, the warmth and hardness of his cock obvious even through his thick leggings.

Roche closed his eyes, moaning with pleasure as Geralt nudged the back of his throat, unable to imagine anywhere he’d rather be.

Well. Perhaps in a soft bed, with Iorveth's cock inside him at the same time.

Roche hollowed his cheeks, listening for the soft moan from above, delighting in the thought that Geralt of Rivia, famed as much as a lover as he was a witcher, was getting off on his mouth.

He swirled his tongue around the head, gathering precome, swallowing it down with pleasure.

At the same moment, Iorveth curled his fingers around Roche’s cock. Roche made a strangled sound, which in turn left Geralt moaning again.

“So thoughtful of you to be naked when I got home,” Iorveth said, and there was _definitely_ still wine on his breath.

The hand that had been on Roche’s belly inched up, brushing over a nipple on his journey upward, pausing as he reached Roche’s throat and stroking with the tips of two fingers.

He wanted to feel Geralt's cock inside Roche, too.

Roche barely suppressed a shudder of sudden, incredible arousal and took a deep breath, swallowing and forcing himself to relax as he took Geralt deeper into his throat, deep enough for Iorveth to feel it.

Gods it felt _good_ to be this full, and Roche didn't care what he looked like or how hard he moaned as long as he could have Geralt's gorgeous cock.

The thud of Geralt's fist against the wall next to him and the soft, broken moan in his ear from Iorveth made the way his eyes watered at the pressure worth it. He held the position for a few moments, swallowing rhythmically as Geralt rocked his hips until his need for air overrode all else.

Geralt groaned a low, deep groan from his very core as Roche eased back, coming down his throat without warning.

Roche choked, struggling to swallow the first mouthful but finding himself soothed by Iorveth's fingers, the feeling of Geralt's spendings sliding down his throat making him shiver, his own cock leaking in Iorveth's hand.

A hand which was taken away a moment later, not allowing Roche the friction he needed to come.

Which left him painfully aroused, panting for breath, his cock aching and his belly tight.

Geralt slumped down the wall, and Roche's heart swelled with pride. He’d managed to make a witcher collapse with only the use of his lips and tongue, a feat he imagined few could claim.

“Not bad,” Geralt rumbled, his voice rough, and Roche knew it was high praise indeed.

He surged forward, catching Geralt's lips, forcing his tongue into Geralt's mouth so he could taste himself there. Geralt accepted him eagerly, melting under Roche’s mouth.

A moment later he found himself being pulled away, his jaw turned with nimble fingers, Iorveth attacking his mouth, his tongue pushing inside, licking the remainder of Geralt's taste out of it, a low moan rumbling in Iorveth's chest.

“Beautiful,” Iorveth murmured, resting his forehead against Roche’s and closing his eyes. He was panting for breath, cheeks flushed, shoulders heaving.

If anything, he was the one who was beautiful like this. Iorveth glowing with arousal was a sight to behold.

“I want you,” Iorveth murmured. Roche's stomach flipped, arousal and excitement practically making him vibrate. “I've thought about little else all day.”

And there it was. Kneeling naked on the main hall floor, his throat sore from sucking someone else’s cock, and Roche was falling truly, utterly in love with his former greatest foe.

Instead of saying so, he seized Iorveth's mouth again, letting the absolute certainty of his feelings wash over him as he sucked on the elf’s clever tongue.

“Have me,” he murmured. “I'm yours.”

And, gods forgive him, he _was_.


	19. Chapter 19

At the first, lightest touch to the tip of his ear, a sleeping Iorveth made a soft, needy sound that lit a fire in the pit of Roche's stomach.

And confirmed that elf ears were just as sensitive as he’d heard.

“I'm afraid I've fallen in love with you,” he murmured, resting their foreheads together and letting his eyes fall closed.

He was sore absolutely everywhere it was possible to be sore, and he’d never been happier.

Thoroughly fucked first by his beautiful mate and then again after a break by his beautiful witcher, Roche couldn't imagine a more pleasurable way to wake up--in exquisite agony, unsure his own legs would work and not in any hurry to find out.

“I'm quite awake,” Iorveth said after a moment. Roche paused in his exploration of the elf’s ears.

Iorveth had heard what was supposed to be a private confession. Roche swallowed. Every time he’d professed his love before now, he’d come away from it bitterly disappointed.

“I have never loved more fully in my entire, long life,” Iorveth said. “Your feelings are entirely returned. Please don't stop touching my ears.”

Roche breathed a sigh of relief, and felt as though some long-damaged part of his heart had been allowed to heal.

He was _loved_. For perhaps the first time in his life.

Roche swallowed as tears welled up in his eyes, continuing to trace the shape of Iorveth's ears with his fingers, as requested.

Iorveth leaned in, pressing short, soft kisses to Roche’s lips.

“I adore you, my love,” Iorveth murmured, his voice soft and melodic. “My mate.”

“Yours,” Roche agreed, feeling the last of his resistance slip away.

He wanted this. Wanted to be loved, and desired, and cared for to the end of his days.

Strange as this arrangement was, it was perhaps no _more_ strange than the men involved in it.

Roche heard the mattress shift under them, and felt another gaze falling on him.

“And it is easy to love you as well, Geralt,” he said.

Not in quite the same way, but no less intensely. No less _surely_.

Roche's love for Geralt was calmer, less urgent, but certain. As certain as the sunrise.

He’d harboured it a lot longer, but never thought he might have much use for it. Now, he found, he did.

“Feeling’s mutual,” Geralt said, settling back down on the mattress. “Glad you're staying. Wouldn't be the same without you.”

“Oh, yes,” Iorveth murmured lazily, still kissing at Roche’s lips in soft, butterfly-light touches. “You are welcome in Toussaint. A treasured friend of Sir Iorveth is a treasured friend of the court,” he said, clearly quoting someone.

“ _Sir_ Iorveth?” Roche asked, surprised.

“I was knighted for my efforts in Vergen,” Iorveth said. “And then swiftly sent on my way for my role in Stennis’ death. Some people are impossible to please.”

“You're too tall for her,” Geralt said. “She likes dwarves.”

Iorveth snorted. “Mutual appreciation for shiny things, I imagine.”

It occurred to Roche belatedly that they were talking about Saskia, and he suspected there was a longer story there.

One for another time.

“Doesn't matter,” Iorveth said after a moment. “I have what I wanted.”

Roche sighed. “As do I,” he said. “As do I.”


	20. Chapter 20

Once he felt as though he could climb the stairs without causing himself unnecessary amounts of pain or risking falling down them, Roche went up to the guest bedroom, to the trunk at the foot of the bed, and opened it.

As expected, he found his Nilfgaardian uniform in there, the one he’d been wearing when he’d been dragged off to a dungeon in secret.

It had been washed, but the sour smell of old blood and sweat still lingered. That was fine. He didn’t plan on keeping it.

Instead, he opened the jacket and took the small scissors he’d taken from Iorveth’s first-aid kit, which was an assembly of things useful for treating the wounds of a certain witcher, who seemed to be determined to collect a scar for every inch of his skin.

He’d put them back, and Iorveth wouldn’t mind him borrowing them once he found out what it was for.

Roche clipped the haphazard stitches he’d used to sew his Blue Stripes insignia to the inside of his jacket, sentimentally, over his heart.

A tiny defiance, one which no one had ever known about. And the only part of the entire uniform worth salvaging, as worn and tattered as it was.

He shoved it in his pocket when he was done, gathering the rest of the uniform in his arms. On his way out of the villa, he returned Iorveth’s scissors as though he’d never touched them.

Outside, he found a brazier that had already been lit for the evening, and dumped the rest of the uniform in it.

The immediate plume of foul-smelling smoke made him cough, his lungs burning and his eyes watering. He stepped back, forcing deep breaths until his chest cleared.

A tall, thin figure appeared beside him.

“Feel better?” Iorveth asked, all the normal sarcasm and judgement entirely gone from his tone.

“Much,” Roche said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He hesitated a moment, running his finger along the edging of his insignia, and then pulled it out.

Without a second thought, he offered it to the elf beside him.

“Now there’s something I haven’t seen in a long time,” Iorveth said.

“It’s yours. I know how badly you wanted it,” Roche responded.

“But…” Iorveth hesitated, his hand already halfway extended to take the offering.

Roche smiled, pressing it into Iorveth’s palm. “I kept it sewed over my heart. This is the closest thing to actually ripping it out of my chest and giving it to you that I can manage. It’s already yours.”

Iorveth closed his fingers around the insignia, his touch lingering against Roche’s hand for a moment longer than necessary.

“Normal people give handsome knights a kerchief,” Iorveth said. “I think. I’ve seen it done here.”

“Nothing about any of this is normal,” Roche responded. “And yet, now that I have it, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I love you, too,” Iorveth said, laughter in his voice.

Things, Roche was beginning to think, had a funny way of working out for the best.


	21. Chapter 21

“Master Roche,” Barnabas-Basil began, drawing Roche's attention away from the pile of paperwork he was methodically dealing with.

He’d tried _Master Vernon_ exactly once, but it hadn't stuck after Roche glared at him. No one ever called him by his first name.

His surname was his _own_ , of his own making. Only his mother called him Vernon, and she was dead.

And Iorveth, but only as part of his full name, and only as part of a habit Roche didn't have the heart to ask him to break.

Iorveth was an exception in many things.

“Mm?” Roche answered mildly. He’d come to like the majordomo, though he was never entirely sure the feeling was mutual.

“I wish to confess that while I was… unsure of your presence at first, I find that now I can see it as nothing but positive. The vineyard is flourishing.”

Roche allowed himself a small, proud smile at that. He’d taken over Geralt’s part of the running of the place with the ruthless efficiency of a military commander, and they _were_ seeing improvement as a result.

“And Master Geralt is happy,” Barnabas-Basil continued. “For which I am very grateful. He breathed new life into this noble vineyard, and deserves to enjoy it.”

“I'm flattered to have your approval,” Roche said. He was being entirely sincere, and was glad he’d taken to life here so easily.

“Master Geralt wishes to put your and Master Iorveth's names on the deed,” he said. “I just need a few details from yourself.”

Roche blinked. “He does?”

“He does, sir,” Barnabas-Basil confirmed. “As long as he has your consent to do so.”

“I'm honoured,” Roche murmured, shocked at the gesture.

Though perhaps he should have expected it. All three of them had only barely escaped the loneliness of their lives. Of course Geralt wanted to keep that.

In any case, Roche planned on rewarding him eagerly the next time they were alone.

“Any details you may need are yours,” he said, joy welling up in his chest.

This was, indeed, a happily ever after in a fairytale kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've gotten this far, I just wanted to say thank you for coming on this magical journey of utter, unrepentant self-indulgence, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed the ride.


End file.
